Peter  Whiffle 

His  Life  and  Works 


BOOKS    BY 
CARL    VAN   VECHTEN 

INTERPRETERS 

IN    THE    GARRET 

PETER       WHIFFLE 

THE   MUSIC   OF    SPAIN 

THE     BLIND     BOW-BOY 

THE    MERRY-GO-ROUND 

THE    TIGER  IN    THE    HOUSE 

MUSIC     AND     BAD      MANNERS 

LORDS     OF     THE     HOUSETOPS 

MUSIC     AFTER     THE     GREAT    WAR 


Peter  Whiffle 

His  Life  and  Works 


Carl     Van      Vechten 


New  York     Alfred  •  A  •  Knopf 

MCMXXIV 


II 


COPYRIGHT,  1922,  BY 
ALFRED  A.  KNOPF,  INC. 

Published,  April.  1928 

Second  Printing,  April,  1923 
Third  Printing,    May,  1922 
Fourth  Printing,  June,  1922 
Fifth  Printing,  July,  1922 
Sixth  Printing,  August,  1999     O>C 
Seventh  Printing,  October,  1928        ~  . 

Eighth  Printing,  March,  19XS 

Nintli  Printing,  July,  19tS 

Tenth  Printing,  October,  1923 

Eleventh  Printing,  February,  192k 


:t  up,  electrotyped,  printed  and  bound  by  the  Vail  Ballou  Press,  Inc.,  Bingliamton,  N.  Y. 
Paper  furnished  by  W.  F.  Etherington  &  Co.,  New  York. 


MANUFACTURED   IN   THE   UNITED    STATES   OP   AMERICA 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OF 

MY  MOTHER, 
ADA  AMANDA  FITCH  VAN  VECHTEN 


622482 


'"Tingling  is  the  test'  said   Babbalanja,  'Yoomy, 
did  you  tingle,  when  that  song  was  composing?' 
"'All  over,  Babbalanja.'" 

HERMAN  MELVILLE:  Mardi. 

"We  'work  in  the  dark— we  do  what  we  can — we 
give  what  we  have.  Our  doubt  is  our  passion,  and 
our  passion  is  our  task.  The  rest  is  the  madness  of 
art."  DENCOMBE:  The  Middle  Years. 


"Les  existences  les  plus  belles  sont  peut-etre  celles 
qui  ont  subi  tons  les  extremes,  qui  out  traverse  toutes 
les  temperatures,  rencontre  toutes  les  sensations  exces- 
sives  et  tons  les  sentiments  contradictoires." 

REMY  DE  GOURMONT:  Le  Chat  de  Misere. 

"The  man  who  satisfies  a  ceaseless  intellectual  cur 
iosity  probably  squeezes  more  out  of  life  in  the  long 
run  than  any  one  else." 

EDMUND  GOSSE:  Books  on  the  Table. 

"O  mother  of  the  hills,  forgive  our  towers; 
O  mother  of  the  clouds,  forgive  our  dreams" 

EDWIN  ELLIS. 


Preface 

So  few  people  were  acquainted  with  Peter 
Whiffle  that  the  announcement,  on  that  page  of  the 
New  York  Times  consecrated  to  wedding,  birth, 
and  obituary  notices,  of  his  death  in  New  York 
on  December  15,  1919,  awakened  no  comment. 
Those  of  my  friends  who  knew  something  of  the 
relationship  between  Peter  and  myself,  probably 
did  not  see  the  slender  paragraph  at  all.  At  any 
rate  none  of  them  mentioned  it,  save,  of  course, 
Edith  Dale,  whose  interest,  in  a  sense,  was  as 
special  as  my  own.  Her  loss  was  not  so  personal, 
however,  nor  her  grief  so  deep.  It  was  strange 
and  curious  to  remember  that  however  infrequently 
we  had  met,  and  the  chronicle  which  follows  will 
give  evidence  of  the  comparative  infrequency  of 
these  meetings,  yet  some  indestructible  bond,  a  firm 
determining  girdle  of  intimate  understanding,  over 
which  Time  and  Space  had  no  power,  held  us  to 
gether.  I  had  become  to  Peter  something  of  a 
necessity,  in  that  through  me  he  found  the  proper 
outlet  for  his  artistic  explosions.  I  was  present, 
indeed,  at  the  bombing  of  more  than  one  discarded 
theory.  It  was  under  the  spell  of  such  apparently 
trivial  and  external  matters  that  our  friendship 

[i] 


Preface 

developed  and,  while  my  own  interests  often  flew 
in  other  directions,  Peter  certainly  occupied  as  im 
portant  a  place  in  my  heart  as  I  did  in  his,  probably, 
in  sofire:  resr>ec^  .iiiof e  important.  Nevertheless, 
when  I  received  a  notification  from  his  lawyer  that 
I Aa^^k^ch'.m^nitiaue^^in  Peter's  will,  I  was  con 
siderably  astonished.  My  astonishment  increased 
when  I  was  informed  of  the  nature  of  the  bequest. 
Peter  Whiffle  had  appointed  me  to  serve  as  his 
literary  executor. 

Now  Peter  Whiffle  was  not,  in  any  accepted  sense 
of  the  epithet,  an  author.  He  had  never  published 
a  book;  he  had  never,  indeed,  written  a  book.  In 
the  end  he  had  come  to  hold  a  somewhat  mystic 
theory  in  regard  to  such  matters,  which  he  had 
only  explained  to  me  a  few  moments  before  he  died. 
I  was,  however,  aware,  more  aware  than  any  one 
else  could  possibly  have  been,  that  from  time  to  time 
he  had  been  accustomed  to  take  notes.  I  was  as 
familiar,  I  suppose,  as  any  one  could  be,  with  the 
trend  of  his  later  ideas,  and  with  some  of  the 
major  incidents  in  his  earlier  life  he  had  acquainted 
me,  although,  here,  I  must  confess,  .there  were 
lacunae  in  my  knowledge.  Still,  his  testamentary 
request,  unless  I  might  choose  to  accept  it  in  a 
sense,  I  am  convinced,  entirely  too  flattering  to  my 
slender  talents,  seemed  to  be  inconsistent  with  the 
speculative  idea  which  haunted  him,  at  least  to 
wards  the  end  of  his  life.  This  contradiction  and 
an  enlarging  sense  of  the  mysterious  character  of 

[2] 


Preface 

the  assignment  were  somewhat  dispelled  by  a  letter, 
dated  June  17,  1917,  which,  a  few  days  after 
the  reading  of  the  will,  his  lawyer  placed  in  my 
hands  and  which  indicated  plainly  enough  that 
Peter  had  decided  upon  my  appointment  at  least 
two  years  and  a  half  before  he  died.  This  letter 
not  only  confirmed  the  strange  clause  in  the  will 
but  also,  to  some  extent,  explained  it  and,  as  the 
letter  is  an  essential  part  of  my  narrative,  I  offer  it 
in  evidence  at  once. 

Dear  Carl — so  it  read: 

I  suppose  that  some  day  I  shall  die;  people  do 
die.  If  there  has  been  one  set  purpose  in  my  life, 
it  has  been  not  to  have  a  purpose.  That,  you 
alone,  perhaps,  understand.  You  know  how  I  have 
always  hesitated  to  express  myself  definitely,  you 
know  how  I  have  refrained  from  writing,  and  you 
also  know,  perhaps,  that  I  can  write;  indeed,  until 
recently,  you  thought  I  was  writing,  or  would  write. 
But  I  think  you  realize  now  what  writing  has  come 
to  mean  to  me,  definition,  constant  definition,  al 
though  it  is  as  apparent  as  anything  can  be  that  life, 
nature,  art,  whatever  one  writes  about,  are  fluid 
and  mutable  things,  perpetually  undergoing  change 
and,  even  when  they  assume  some  semblance  of 
permanence,  always  presenting  two  or  more  faces. 
There  are  those  who  are  not  appalled  by  these 
conditions,  those  who  confront  them  with  bravery 
and  even  with  impertinence.  You  have  been  cour 
ageous.  You  have  published  several  books  which  I 

[3] 


Preface 

have  read  with  varying  shades  of  pleasure,  and  you 
have  not  hesitated  to  define,  or  at  any  rate  discuss, 
even  that  intangible,  invisible,  and  noisy  art  called 
Music. 

I  have  begun  many  things  but  nothing  have  I 
ever  completed.  It  has  always  seemed  unnecessary 
or  impossible,  although  at  times  I  have  tried  to 
carry  a  piece  of  work  through.  On  these  occasions 
a  restraining  angel  has  held  me  firmly  back. 
It  might  be  better  if  what  I  have  written,  what  I 
have  said,  were  permitted  to  pass  into  oblivion  with 
me,  to  become  a  part  of  scoriae  chaos.  It  may  not 
mean  anything  in  particular;  if  it  means  too  much, 
to  that  extent  I  have  failed. 

Thinking,  however,  of  death,  as  I  .sometimes  do, 
I  have  wondered  if,  after  all,  behind  the  vapoury 
curtain  of  my  fluctuating  purpose,  behind  the  orphic 
wall  of  my  indecision,  there  did  not  lurk  some 
vague  shadow  of  intention.  Not  on  my  part,  per 
haps,  but  on  the  part  of  that  being,  or  that  con 
dition,  which  is  reported  to  be  interested  in  such 
matters.  This  doubt,  I  confess,  I  owe  to  you. 
Sometimes,  in  those  extraordinary  moments  be 
tween  sleeping  and  awakening — and  once  in  the 
dentist's  chair,  after  I  had  taken  gas — the  knots 
seemed  to  unravel,  the  problem  seemed  as  naked 
as  Istar  at  the  seventh  gate.  But  these  moments 
are  difficult,  or  impossible,  to  recapture.  To  re 
capture  them  I  should  have  been  compelled  to 
invent  a  new  style,  a  style  as  capricious  and  vibra- 

[4] 


Preface 

tory  as  the  moments  themselves.  In  this,  how 
ever,  as  you  know,  I  have  failed,  while  you  have 
succeeded.  It  is  to  your  success,  modest  as  it  may 
appear  to  you,  that  I  turn  in  my  dilemma.  To  come 
to  the  point,  cannot  you  explain,  make  out  some 
kind  of  case  for  me,  put  me  on  my  feet  (or  in  a 
book),  and  thereby  prove  or  disprove  something? 
Shameless  as  I  am,  it  would  be  inconceivable,  absurd, 
for  me  to  ask  you  to  do  this  while  I  am  yet  living 
and  I  have,  therefore,  put  my  request  into  a  formal 
clause  in  my  will.  After  I  am  dead,  you  may 
search  your  memory,  which  I  know  to  be  very  good, 
for  such  examples  of  our  conversations  as  will  best 
be  fitted  to  illuminate  your  subject,  which  I  must 
insist — you,  yourself,  will  understand  this,  too, 
sooner  or  later — is  not  me  at  all. 

When  your  book  is  published,  I  shall  be  dead 
and  perhaps  unconscious.  If,  however,  as  I  strongly 
suspect,  some  current  connects  the  life  to  be  with 
the  life  that  is,  I  can  enjoy  what  you  have  done. 
At  the  best,  you  may  give  others  a  slight  intimation 
of  the  meaning  of  inspiration  or  fujnish  guide- 
posts,  lighthouses,  and  bell-buoys  to  the  poet  who 
intends  to  march  singing  along  the  highroad  or 
bravely  to  emtark  on  the  ships  at  sea;  at  the  worst, 
I  have  furnished  you  with  a  subject  for  another 
book,  and  I  am  well  aware  that  subjects  even  for 
bad  books  are  difficult  to  light  upon. 

Salve  atque  Vale, 
Peter. 

[5] 


Preface 

This  letter,  I  may  say,  astonished  me.  I  think 
it  would  astonish  anybody.  A  profound  and  en 
veloping  melancholy  succeeded  to  this  feeling  of 
astonishment.  At  the  time,  I  was  engaged  in  put 
ting  the  finishing  touches  to  The  Tiger  in  the 
House  and  I  postponed  meditation  on  Peter's 
affair  until  that  bulky  volume  could  be  dispatched 
to  the  printer.  That  happy  event  fell  on  March 
15,  1920,  but  my  anthology,  Lords  of  The  House 
tops,  next  claimed  my  attention,  and  then  the  new 
edition  of  Interpreters,  for  which  I  had  agreed  to 
furnish  a  new  paper,  and  the  writing  of  this  new 
paper  amused  me  very  much,  carrying  my  mind 
not  only  far  away  from  cats,  which  had  been 
occupying  it  for  a  twelvemonth,  but  also  away  from 
Peter's  request.  At  last,  Interpreters  was  ready 
for  the  printer,  but  now  the  proofs  of  The  Tiger 
began  to  come  in,  and  I  may  say  that  for  the  next 
three  months  my  days  were  fully  occupied  in  the 
correction  of  proofs,  for  those  of  Lords  of  The 
Housetops  and  Interpreters  were  in  my  garret 
when  the  proofs  of  The  Tiger  were  not.  Never 
have  I  corrected  proofs  with  so  much  concentrated 
attention  as  that  which  I  devoted  to  the  proofs  of 
The  Tiger,  and  yet  there  were  errors.  In  re 
gard  to  some  of  these,  I  was  not  the  collaborator. 
On  Page  240,  for  instance,  one  may  read,  There 
are  many  females  in  the  novels  of  Emile  Zola. 
My  intention  was  to  have  the  fourth  word  read, 
felines,  and  so  it  stood  in  the  final  proof,  but  my 

[6] 


Preface 

ambition  to  surmount  the  initial  letter  of  Zola's 
Christian  name  with  an  acute  accent  (an  ambition 
I  shall  forswear  on  this  present  page),  compelled 
the  printer  to  reset  the  line,  so  that  subsequently, 
when  I  opened  the  book  at  this  page,  I  read 
with  amazement  that  there  are  many  females  in 
the  novels  of  Emile  Zola,  a  statement  that  cannot 
be  readily  denied,  to  be  sure,  but  still  it  is  no  dis 
covery  of  which  to  boast. 

It  was  not  until  September,  1920,  that  I  had  an 
opportunity  to  seriously  consider  Peter's  request 
and  when  I  did  begin  to  consider  it,  I  thought  of 
it  at  first  only  as  a  duty  to  be  accomplished.  But 
when  I  began  searching  my  memory  for  details  of 
the  conversations  between  us  and  had  perused  cer 
tain  notes  I  had  made  on  various  occasions,  visited 
his  house  on  Beekman  Place  to  look  over  his  effects 
and  talk  with  his  mother,  the  feeling  of  the  artist 
for  inevitable  material  came  over  me  and  I  knew 
that  whether  Peter  had  written  me  that  letter  or 
not,  I  should  sooner  or  later  have  written  this  book 
about  him. 

There  was  another  struggle  over  the  eventual 
form,  a  question  concerning  which  Peter  had  made 
no  suggestions.  It  seemed  to  me,  at  first,  that  a 
sort  of  haphazard  collection  of  his  ideas  and  pro- 
nunciamentos,  somewhat  in  the  manner  of  Samuel 
Butler's  Note-Books,  would  meet  the  case,  but  after 
a  little  reflection  I  rejected  this  idea.  Light  on  the 
man  was  needed  for  a  complete  understanding  of 

[7] 


Preface 

his  ideas,  or  lack  of  them,  for  they  shifted  like 
the  waves  of  the  sea.  I  can  never  tell  why,  but 
it  was  while  I  was  reading  William  Dean  Howells's 
Familiar  Spanish  Studies  one  day  in  the  New 
York  Public  Library  that  I  suddenly  decided  on  a 
sort  of  loose  biographical  form,  a  free  fantasia  in 
the  manner  of  a  Liszt  Rhapsody.  This  settled,  I 
literally  swam  ahead  and  scarcely  found  it  necessary 
to  examine  many  papers  (which  was  fortunate  as 
few  exist)  or  to  consult  anything  but  my  memory, 
which  lighted  up  the  subject  from  obscure  angles, 
as  a  search-light  illuminates  the  spaces  of  the  sea, 
once  I  had  learned  to  decipher  the  meaning  of  the 
problem.  What  it  is  all  about,  or  whether  it  is 
about  anything  at  all,  you,  the  reader,  of  course, 
must  decide  for  yourself.  To  me,  the  moral,  if  I 
may  use  a  conventional  word  to  express  an  un 
conventional  idea,  is  plain,  and  if  I  have  not  suc 
ceeded  in  making  it  appear  so,  then  I  must  to  some 
extent  blame  you,  the  reader,  for  what  is  true  of 
all  books,  is  perhaps  truest  of  this,  that  you  will 
carry  away  from  it  only  what  you  are  able  to  bring 
to  it. 


[8] 


Chapter  I 

One  of  my  friends,  a  lady,  visited  Venice  alone 
in  her  middle  age.  It  was  late  at  night  when  the 
train  drew  into  the  station,  and  it  was  raining,  a 
drizzly,  chilling  rain.  The  porter  pushed  her, 
with  her  bag,  into  a  damp  gondola  and  the  dismal 
voyage  to  the  hotel  began.  There  were  a  few 
lights  here  and  there  but  she  had  the  impression 
that  she  was  floating  down  the  Chicago  River  in  a 
wash-tub.  Once  she  had  reached  her  destination, 
she  clambered  unsteadily  out  of  the  black  barge, 
wobbled  through  a  dark  passageway,  inhaling  great 
whiffs  of  masticated  garlic,  and  finally  emerged 
in  a  dimly  lighted  lobby.  At  the  desk,  a  sleepy 
clerk  yawned  as  she  spoke  of  her  reservation. 
Tired,  rather  cross,  and  wholly  disappointed,  she 
muttered,  I  don't  like  Venice  at  all.  I  wish  I  hadn't 
come.  The  clerk  was  unsympathetically  explana 
tory,  Signora  should  have  visited  Venice  when  she 
was  younger. 

A  day  or  so  later,  the  lady  recovered  her  spin** 
and  even  her  sense  of  humour  for  she  told  me  the 
story  herself  and  I  have  always  remembered  it. 
The  moment  it  passed  her  lips,  indeed,  I  began  to 

[9] 


Peter  Whiffle 

reflect  that  I  had  been  lucky  to  encounter  the 
Bride  of  the  Adriatic  in  my  youth.  Paris,  too, 
especially  Paris,  for  there  is  a  melancholy  pleasure 
to  be  derived  from  Venice.  It  is  a  suitable  environ 
ment  for  grief;  there  is  a  certain  superior  relish  to 
suffering  there.  Paris,  I  sometimes  think,  smiles 
only  on  the  very  young  and  it  is  not  a  city  I  should 
care  to  approach  for  the  first  time  after  I  had  passed 
forty. 

I  was,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  in  my  twenties  when 
I  first  went  to  Paris — my  happiness  might  have  been 
even  greater  had  I  been  nineteen — and  I  was  alone. 
The  trip  across  England — I  had  landed  at  Liver 
pool — and  the  horrid  channel,  I  will  not  describe, 
although  both  made  sufficient  impression  on  me,  but 
the  French  houses  at  Dieppe  awakened  my  first  deep 
emotion  and  then,  and  so  many  times  since,  the 
Normandy  cider,  quaffed  in  a  little  cafe,  contermi 
nous  to  the  railroad,  and  the  journey  through  France, 
alive  in  the  sunlight,  for  it  was  May,  the  fields 
dancing  with  the  green  grain  spattered  with  ver 
milion  poppies  and  cerulean  cornflowers,  the  white 
roads,  flying  like  ribbons  between  the  stately  pop 
lars,  leading  away  over  the  charming  hills  past  the 
red-brick  villas,  completed  the  siege  of  my  not  too 
easily  given  heart.  There  was  the  stately  and 
romantic  interruption  of  Rouen,  which  at  that 
period  suggested  nothing  in  the  world  to  me  but 
Emma  Bovary.  Then  more  fields,  more  roads, 
more  towns,  and  at  last,  towards  twilight,  Paris. 

[10] 


His  Life  and  Works 
Railroads  have  a  fancy  for  entering  cities  stealth 
ily  through  backyards  and  the  first  glimpses  of 
Paris,  achieved  from  a  car-window,  were  not  over- 
pleasant  but  the  posters  on  the  hoardings,  adver 
tising  beer  and  automobile  tires,  particularly  that  of 
the  Michelin  Tire  Company,  with  the  picture  of  the 
pinguid  gentleman,  constructed  of  a  series  of  pneu 
matic  circles,  seemed  characteristic  enough.  Cheret 
was  dead  but  something  of  his  spirit  seemed  to  glow 
in  these  intensely  coloured  affiches  and  I  was  young. 
Even  the  dank  Gare  Saint  Lazare  did  not  dismay 
me,  and  I  entered  into  the  novel  baggage  hunt  with 
something  of  zest,  while  other  busy  passengers  and 
the  blue  porters  rushed  hither  and  thither  in  a 
complicated  but  well-ordered  maze.  Naturally, 
however,  I  was  the  last  to  leave  the  station;  as  the 
light  outside  deepened  to  a  rich  warm  blue,  I  wan 
dered  into  the  street,  my  porter  bearing  my  trunk, 
to  find  there  a  solitary  cocher  mounted  on  the  box  of 
his  carious  fiacre. 

An  artist  friend,  Albert  Worcester,  had  already 
determined  my  destination  and  so  I  gave  commands, 
Hotel  de  la  Place  de  TOdeon,  the  cocher  cracked 
his  whip,  probably  adding  a  Hue  cocotte!  and 
we  were  under  way.  The  drive  through  the  streets 
that  evening  seemed  like  a  dream  and,  even  later, 
when  the  streets  of  Paris  had  become  more  familiar 
to  me  than  those  of  any  other  city,  I  could  occa 
sionally  recapture  the  mood  of  this  first  vision.  For 
Paris  in  the  May  twilight  is  very  soft  and  exquisite, 


Peter  Whiffle 

the  grey  buildings  swathed  in  a  bland  blue  light  and 
the  air  redolent  with  a  strange  fragrance,  the  ingre 
dients  of  which  have  never  been  satisfactorily  identi 
fied  in  my  nasal  imagination,  although  Huysmans, 
Zola,  Symons,  and  Cunninghame  Graham  have  all 
attempted  to  separate  and  describe  them.  Presently 
we  crossed  the  boulevards  and  I  saw  for  the  first 
time  the  rows  of  blooming  chestnut  trees,  the 
kiosques  where  newsdealers  dispensed  their  wares, 
the  brilliantly  lighted  theatres,  the  sidewalk  cafes, 
sprinkled  with  human  figures,  typical  enough,  doubt 
less,  but  who  all  seemed  as  unreal  to  me  at  the  time 
as  if  they  had  been  Brobdingnags,  Centaurs,  Griffins, 
or  Mermaids.  Other  fiacres,  private  carriages, 
taxi-autos,  carrying  French  men  and  French  ladies, 
passed  us.  I  saw  Bel  Ami,  Nana,  Liane  de  Pougy, 
or  Otero  in  every  one  of  them.  As  we  drove  by 
the  Opera,  I  am  certain  that  Cleo  de  Merode  and 
Leopold  of  Belgium  descended  the  steps.  Even  the 
buses  assumed  the  appearance  of  gorgeous  char 
iots,  bearing  perfumed  Watteauesque  ladies  on 
their  journey  to  Cythera.  As  we  drove  through 
the  Tuileries  Gardens,  the  mood  snapped  for  an 
instant  as  I  viewed  the  statue  of  Gambetta,  which, 
I  thought  at  the  time,  and  have  always  thought 
since,  was  amazingly  like  the  portrait  of  a  gentle 
man  hailing  a  cab.  What  could  more  completely 
symbolize  Paris  than  the  statue  of  a  gentleman  per 
petually  hailing  a  cab  and  never  getting  one? 
We  drove  on  through  the  Louvre  and  now  the 

[12] 


His  Life  and  Works 

Seine  was  under  us,  lying  black  in  the  twilight,  re 
viving  dark  memories  of  crime  and  murder,  on 
across  the  Pont  du.  Carrousel,  and  up  the  narrow 
Rue  de  Seine.  The  Quartier  Latin!  I  must  have 
cried  aloud,  for  the  cocher  looked  a  trifle  suspicious, 
his  head  turned  the-  fraction  of  an  inch.  Later,  of 
course,  I  said,  the  left  bank,  as  casually  as  any  one. 
It  was  almost  dark  when  we  drove  into  the  open 
Place,  flanked  by  the  Odeon,  a  great  Roman  temple, 
with  my  little  hotel  tucked  into  one  corner,  as  un 
ostentatiously  as  possible,  being  exactly  similar  to 
every  other  structure,  save  the  central  one,  in  the 
Place.  I  shall  stop  tonight,  I  said  to  myself,  in  the 
hotel  where  Little  Billee  lived,  for,  when  one  first 
goes  to  Paris  when  one  is  young,  Paris  is  either 
the  Paris  of  Murger,  du  Maurier,  or  the  George 
Moore  of  the  Confessions,  perhaps  the  Paris  of 
all  three.  In  my  bag  these  three  books-  lay,  and  I 
had  already  begun  to  live  one  of  them. 

The  patron  and  a  servant  in  a  long  white  apron 
were  waiting,  standing  in  the  doorway.  The  serv 
ant  hoisted  my  trunk  to  his  shoulder  and  bore  it 
away.  I  paid  the  cocher's  reckoning,  not  without 
difficulty  for,  although  I  was  not  ignorant  of  the 
language,  I  was  unaccustomed  to  the  simplicity  of 
French  coinage.  There  were  also  the  mysteries 
of  the  pourboire  to  compute — ten  per  cent,  I  had 
been  told;  who  has  not  been  told  this? — and  be 
sides,  as  always  happens  when  one  is  travelling,  I 
had  no  little  money.  But  at  length  the  negotiations 

[13] 


Peter  Whiffle 

were  terminated,  not  to  the  displeasure  of  the 
cocher,  I  feel  certain,  since  he  condescended  to 
smile  pleasantly.  Then,  with  a  crack  of  his  whip, 
this  enormous  fellow  with  his  black  moustaches,  his 
glazed  top-hat,  and  his  long  coat,  drove  away.  I 
cast  a  long  lingering  look  after  him,  apparently 
quite  unaware  that  many  another  such  teratological 
specimen  existed  on  every  hand.  Now  I  followed 
the  patron  into  a  dark  hallway  and  new  strata  of 
delight.  He  gave  me  a  lighted  candle  and,  behind 
him,  I  mounted  the  winding  stairway  to  the  first 
floor,  where  I  was  deposited  in  a  chamber  with  dark 
red  walls,  heavy  dark  red  curtains  at  the  windows, 
which  looked  out  over  the  Place,  a  black  walnut 
wash-hand-stand  with  pitcher  and  basin,  a  huge 
black  walnut  wardrobe,  two  or  three  chairs  of  the 
same  wood,  upholstered  with  faded  brocade,  and 
a  most  luxurious  bed,  so  high  from  the  floor  that 
one  had  to  climb  into  it,  hung  with  curtains  like 
those  at  the  window,  and  surmounted  by  a  feather 
bed.  There  was  also  another  article  of  furniture, 
indispensable  to  any  French  bedroom. 

I  gave  Joseph  (all  men  servants  in  small  hotels 
in  Paris  are  named  Joseph,  perhaps  to  warn  off 
prospective  Potiphar's  wives)  his  vail,  asked  for 
hot  water,  which  he  bore  up  promptly  in  a  small 
can,  washed  myself,  did  a  little  unpacking,  hum 
ming  the  Mattchiche  the  while,  changed  my  shirt, 
my  collar  and  my  necktie,  demanded  another  bougie, 
lighted  it,  and  under  the  humble  illumination  af- 

[14] 


His  Life  and  Works 

forded  by  it  and  its  companion,  I  began  to  read 
again  The  Confessions  of  a  Young  Man.  It  was 
not  very  long  before  I  was  interrupted  in  the  midst 
of  an  absorbing  passage  descriptive  of  the  circle  at 
the  Nouvelle  Athenes  by  the  arrival  of  Albert 
Worcester,  who  had  arranged  for  my  reception, 
and  right  here  I  may  say  that  I  was  lodged  in  the 
Hotel  de  la  Place  de  1'Odeon  for  fifty  francs  a 
month.  Albert's  arrival,  although  unannounced, 
was  not  unexpected,  as  he  had  promised  to  take  me 
to  dinner. 

I  was  sufficiently  emphatic.  Paris!  I  cried. 
Paris!  Good  God! 

I  see  you  are  not  disappointed.  But  Albert 
permitted  a  trace  of  cynicism  to  flavour  his  smile. 

It's  too  perfect,  too  wonderful.  It  is  more 
than  I  felt  or  imagined.  I'm  moving  in. 

But  you  haven't  seen  it.  ... 

I've  seen  enough.  I  don't  mean  that.  I  mean 
I've  seen  enough  to  know.  But  I  want  to  see  it 
all,  everything,  Saint  Sulpice,  the  Folies-Bergere, 
the  Musee  de  Cluny,  the  Nouvelle  Athenes,  the 
Comedie  Franchise,  the  Bal  Bullier,  the  Arc  de 
Triomphe,  the  Luxembourg  Gardens.  .  .  . 

They  close  at  sundown.  My  expression  was 
the  cue  for  him  to  continue,  They'll  be  open 
tomorrow  and  any  other  day.  They're  just  around 
the  corner.  You  can  go  there  when  you  get  up  in 
the  morning,  if  you  do  get  up  in  the  morning.  But 
what  do  you  want  to  do  tonight? 

[15] 


Peter  Whiffle 

Anything!     Everything!     I  cried. 

Well,  we'll  eat  first. 

So  we  blew  out  the  candles,  floated  down  the  dark 
stairs — I  didn't  really  walk  for  a  week,  I  am  sure — , 
brushing  on  our  way  against  a  bearded  student 
and  a  girl,  fragrant  and  warm  in  the  semi-blackness, 
out  into  the  delicious  night,  with  the  fascinating  in 
describable  odour  of  Paris,  which  ran  the  gamut 
from  the  fragrance  of  lilac  and  mimosa  to  the 
aroma  of  horse-dung;  with  the  sound  of  horses' 
hoofs  and  rolling  wheels  beating  and  revolving  on 
the  cobble-stones,  we  made  our  way — I  swear  my 
feet  never  touched  the  ground — through  the  nar 
row,  crooked,  constantly  turning,  bewildering 
streets,  until  we  came  out  on  a  broad  boulevard 
before  the  Cafe  d'Harcourt,  where  I  was  to  eat 
my  first  Paris  dinner. 

The  Cafe  d'Harcourt  is  situated  near  the  Church 
of  the  Sorbonne  on  the  Boulevard  Saint  Michel, 
which  you  are  more  accustomed  to  see  spelled  Boul' 
Mich'.  It  is  a  big,  brightly  lighted  cafe,  with  a 
broad  terrasse,  partially  enclosed  by  a  hedge  of 
green  bushes  in  boxes.  The  hands  of  the  clock 
pointed  to  the  hour  of  eight  when  we  arrived  and 
the  tables  all  appeared  to  be  occupied.  Inside, 
groups  of  men  were  engaged  in  games  of  checkers, 
while  the  orchestra  was  performing  selections  from 
Louis  Ganne's  operetta,  Les  Saltimbanques.  On 
the  terrasse,  each  little  table,  covered  with  its  white 
cloth,  was  lighted  by  a  tiny  lamp  with  a  roseate 

[16] 


His  Life  and  Works 

shade,  over  which  faces  glowed.  The  bottles  and 
dishes  and  silver  all  contributed  their  share  to  the 
warmth  of  the  scene,  and  heaping  bowls  of  peaches 
and  pears  and  apples  and  little  wood  strawberries, 
ornamenting  the  sideboards,  gave  the  place  an  al 
most  sumptuous  appearance.  Later  I  learned  that 
fruit  was  expensive  in  Paris  and  not  to  be  tasted 
lightly.  Victor  Maurel  has  told  me  how,  dining 
one  night  with  the  composer  of  The  Barber,  he 
was  about  to  help  himself  to  a  peach  from  a  silver 
platter  in  the  centre  of  the  table  when  the  frugal 
Madame  Rossini  expostulated,  Those  are  to  look 
at,  not  to  eat! 

While  we  lingered  on  the  outer  sidewalk,  a  little 
comedy  was  enacted,  through  the  denouement  of 
which  we  secured  places.  A  youth,  with  wine  in 
his  head  and  love  in  his  eyes,  caressed  the  warm 
lips  of  an  adorable  girl.  Save  for  the  glasses  of 
aperitifs  from  which  they  had  been  drinking,  their 
table  was  bare.  They  had  not  yet  dined.  He 
clasped  her  tightly  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her,  kissed 
her  for  what  seemed  to  be  a  very  long  time  but 
no  one,  except  me,  appeared  to  take  any  notice. 

Look!    I  whispered  to  Albert.     Look! 

O!  that's  all  right.  You'll  get  used  to  that, 
he  replied  negligently. 

Now  the  kiss  was  over  and  the  two  began  to 
talk,  very  excitedly  and  rapidly,  as  French  people 
are  wont  to  talk.  Then,  impulsively,  they  rose 
from  their  chairs.  The  man  threw  a  coin  down  on 

[17] 


Peter  Whiffle 

his  napkin.  I  caught  the  glint  of  gold.  He  gath 
ered  his  arms  about  the  woman,  a  lovely  pale  blue 
creature,  with  torrid  orange  hair  and  a  hat  abloom 
with  striated  petunias.  They  were  in  the  middle  of 
the  street  when  the  waiter  appeared,  bearing  a  tray, 
laden  with  plates  of  sliced  cucumbers,  radishes  and 
butter,  and  tiny  crayfish,  and  a  bottle  of  white  wine. 
He  stared  in  mute  astonishment  at  the  empty  table, 
and  then  picked  up  the  coin.  Finally,  he  glanced  to- 
wards  the  street  and,  observing  the  retreating  pair, 
called  after  them: 

Mais  vous  n'avez  pas  dine ! 

The  man  turned  and  shot  his  reply  over  his 
shoulder,  Nous  rentrons! 

The  crowd  on  the  terrasse  shrieked  with  delight. 
They  applauded.  Some  even  tossed  flowers  from 
the  tables  after  the  happy  couple  and  we  .  .  .we 
sat  down  in  the  chairs  they  had  relinquished.  I  am 
not  certain  that  we  did  not  eat  the  dinner  they  had 
ordered.  At  any  rate  we  began  with  the  cucumbers 
and  radishes  and  ecrevisses  and  a  bottle  of  Graves 
Superior. 

That  night  in  Paris  I  saw  no  Americans,  at  least 
no  one  seemed  to  be  an  American,  and  I  heard  no 
English  spoken.  How  this  came  about  I  have  no 
idea  because  it  never  occurred  again.  In  fact,  one 
meets  more  Americans  in  Paris  than  one  does  in 
New  York  and  most  of  the  French  that  I  manage 
to  speak  I  have  picked  up  on  the  Island  of  Man 
hattan.  During  dinner  I  began  to  suspect  a  man 

[18] 


His  Life  and  Works 

without  a  beard,  in  a  far  corner,  but  Albert  re 
assured  me. 

He  is  surely  French,  he  said,  because  he  is 
buttering  his  radishes. 

It  would  be  difficult  to  exaggerate  my  emotion: 
the  white  wine,  the  bearded  French  students,  the 
exquisite  women,  all  young  and  smiling  and  gay, 
all  organdie  and  lace  and  sweet-peas,  went  to  my 
head.  I  have  spent  many  happy  evenings  in  the 
Cafe  d'Harcourt  since  that  night.  I  have  been 
there  with  Olive  Fremstad,  when  she  told  me  how, 
dressed  as  a  serpent  in  bespangled  Nile  green,  she 
had  sung  the  finale  of  Salome  to  Edward  VII  in 
London,  and  one  memorable  Mardi-Gras  night  with 
Jane  Noria,  when,  in  a  long  raincoat  which  covered 
me  from  head  to  foot,  standing  on  our  table  from 
time  to  time,  I  shouted,  C'est  1'heure  fatale !  and 
made  as  if  to  throw  the  raincoat  aside  but  Noria, 
as  if  dreading  the  exposure,  always  dragged  me 
down  from  the  table,  crying,  No!  No!  until  the 
carnival  crowd,  consumed  with  curiosity,  pulled  me 
into  a  corner,  tore  the  raincoat  away,  and  every 
thing  else  too!  There  was  another  night,  before 
the  Bal  des  Quat'z  Arts,  when  the  cafe  was  filled 
with  students  and  models  in  costume,  and  costume 
for  the  Quat'z  Arts  in  those  days,  whatever  it  may 
be  now,  did  not  require  the  cutting  out  of 
many  handkerchiefs.  But  the  first  night  was  the 
best  and  every  other  night  a  more  or  less  pale  re 
flection  of  that,  always,  indeed,  coloured  a  little  by 

[19] 


Peter  Whiffle 

the  memory  of  it.  So  that  today,  when  some 
times  I  am  asked  what  cafe  I  prefer  in  Paris  and  I 
reply,  the  d'Harcourt,  there  are  those  who  look  at 
me  a  little  pityingly  and  some  even  go  so  far  as  to 
ejaculate,  O!  that!  but  I  know  why  it  is  my  favour 
ite. 

Even  a  leisurely  dinner  ends  at  last,  and  I  knew, 
as  we  sipped  our  coffee  and  green  chartreuse  and 
smoked  our  cigarettes,  that  this  one  must  be  over. 
After  paying  our  very  moderate  addition,  we 
strolled  slowly  away,  to  hop  into  an  empty  fiacre 
which  stood  on  the  corner  a  block  down  the  boule 
vard.  I  lay  back  against  the  seat  and  gazed  at  the 
stars  for  a  moment  as  the  drive  began  through  the 
warm,  fragrant  Paris  air,  the  drive  back  to  the  right 
bank,  this  time  across  the  Pont  Neuf,  down  the  Rue 
de  Rivoli,  through  the  Place  de  la  Concorde,  where 
the  fountains  were  playing,  and  up  the  Champs- 
Elysees.  The  aroma  of  the  chestnuts,  the  melting 
grey  of  the  buildings,  the  legions  of  carriages  and 
buses,  filled  with  happy,  chattering  people,  the 
glitter  of  electricity,  all  the  mystic  wonder  of  this 
enchanting  night  will  always  stay  with  me. 

We  drove  to  the  Theatre  Marigny  where  we 
saw  a  revue;  at  least  we  were  present  at  a  revue;  I 
do  not  remember  to  have  seen  or  heard  anything  on 
the  stage.  Between  the  acts,  we  walked  in  the 
open  foyer,  at  this  theatre  a  sort  of  garden,  and 
admired  the  cocottes,  great  ladies  of  some  distant 
epoch,  they  seemed  to  me,  in  their  toilets  from 

[20] 


His  Life  and  Works 

Redfern  and  Doucet  and  Cheruit  and  Callot  Soeurs, 
their  hats  from  the  Rue  de  la  Paix  and  the  Place 
Vendome,  their  exceedingly  elaborate  and  decora- 
tively  artificial  complexions.  Later,  we  sipped  cas 
sis  on  the  balcony.  It  was  Spring  in  Paris  and  I  was 
young!  The  chestnut  trees  were  heavy  with  white 
blossoms  and  the  air  was  laden  with  their  perfume. 
I  gazed  down  the  Champs-Elysees,  surely  the  true 
Elysian  Fields,  a  myriad  of  lights  shining  through 
the  dark  green,  the  black,  leaved  branches.  I  do 
not  think  I  spoke  many  words  and  I  know  that 
Albert  did  not.  He  may  have  been  bored,  but  I 
think  he  derived  some  slight  pleasure  from  my 
juvenile  enthusiasm  for,  although  Paris  was  old 
hat  to  him,  he  loved  this  particular  old  hat. 

We  must  have  stopped  somewhere  for  more 
drinks  on  the  way  home,  perhaps  at  Weber's  in  the 
Rue  Royale,  where  there  was  a  gipsy  band.  I  do 
not  remember,  but  I  am  sure  that  it  was  nearly  four 
in  the  morning  when  we  drove  up  before  the  little 
hotel  in  the  Place  de  1'Odeon  and  when,  after  we 
had  paid  the  driver  and  dismissed  him,  I  discovered 
to  my  astonishment  that  the  door  was  locked. 
Albert  assured  me  that  this  was  the  custom  and 
that  I  must  ring  for  the  concierge.  So  I  pulled 
the  knob,  and  even  outside  we  could  hear  the  dis 
tant  reverberations  of  the  bell,  but  no  reply  came, 
and  the  door  remained  closed.  It  was  Joseph's 
job  to  open  the  door  and  Joseph  was  asleep  and 
refused  to  awaken.  Again  and  again  we  pulled 

[21] 


Peter  Whiffle 

the  cord,  the  bell  tinkling  in  the  vast  silence,  for 
the  street  was  utterly  deserted,  but  still  no  one 
came.  At  last  we  desisted,  Albert  suggesting  that 
I  go  home  with  him.  We  walked  a  few  paces 
until  we  came  to  the  iron  fence  surrounding  the 
Luxembourg  Gardens  and  there,  lying  beside  it, 
I  espied  a  ladder,  left  by  some  negligent  workman. 

But  fey  room  is  on  the  first  floor.  The  window 
is  open;  it  looks  over  the  Place.  I  can  enter  with 
the  ladder,  I  cried. 

Albert,  amused,  helped  me  carry  it  back.  Set 
up,  it  just  reached  the  window  and  I  swiftly  scaled 
it  and  clambered  into  the  room,  waving  my  hand 
back  to  Albert,  who  hoisted  the  ladder  to  his 
shoulder  as  he  started  up  the  street  trying  to 
whistle,  Viens  Poupoule!  but  laughing  to  himself 
all  the  time,  so  that  the  tune  cracked.  As  for  me,  I 
lighted  one  of  my  candles,  undressed,  threw  the 
feather-bed  off  to  the  floor,  and  climbed  into  bed. 
Then  I  blew  out  the  candle  and  soon  fell  asleep.  It 
was  the  tenth  of  May,  1907,  that  I  spent  my  first 
night  in  Paris. 


[22] 


Chapter  II 

It  must  have  been  nearly  noon  when  I  awakened 
and  drew  back  the  heavy  curtains  to  let  the  sunlight 
into  my  room,  as  I  have  since  seen  so  many  French 
actresses  do  on  the  stage.  I  rang  the  bell,  and 
when  Joseph  appeared,  I  asked  for  hot  water,  choc 
olate  and  rolls.  Presently,  he  returned  with  a  little 
can  of  tepid  water  and  my  breakfast  on  a  tray. 
While  I  sponged  myself,  I  listened  to  the  cacophony 
of  the  street,  the  boys  calling  vegetables,  the  heavy 
rumbling  of  the  buses  on  the  rough  pavement,  the 
shrieking  and  tooting  of  the  automobile  sirens. 
Then  I  sipped  my  chocolate  and  munched  my  crois 
sant,  feeling  very  happy.  My  past  had  dropped 
from  me  like  a  crustacean's  discarded  shell.  I  was 
in  Paris  and  it  still  seemed  possible  to  live  in  Paris 
as  I  had  been  told  that  one  lived  there.  It  was 
exactly  like  the  books. 

After  my  breakfast,  I  dressed  slowly,  and  wan 
dered  out,  past  the  peristyle  of  the  Odeon,  where  I 
afterwards  spent  so  many  contented  hours  search 
ing  for  old  plays,  on  through  the  now  open  gate  of 
the  Luxembourg  Gardens,  gaily  sprinkled  with 
children  and  their  nounous,  students  and  sweet  girls, 
charming  old  ladies  with  lace  caps  on  their  heads 
and  lace  scarfs  round  their  shoulders,  and  painters, 

[23] 


Peter  Whiffle 

working  away  at  their  canvases  on  easels.  In  the 
pool  in  front  of  the  Senate,  boys  were  launching 
their  toy  sloops  and  schooners  and,  a  little  further 
away  on  the  gravel  walk,  other  boys  were  engaged 
in  the  more  active  sport  of  diabolo.  The  gardens 
were  ablaze  with  flowers  but  a  classic  order  was 
maintained  for  which  the  stately  rows  of  clipped 
limes  furnished  the  leading  note.  The  place 
seemed  to  have  been  created  for  pleasure.  Even 
the  dingy  statues  of  the  queens  smiled  at  me.  I  sat 
on  a  bench,  dreaming,  until  an  old  crone  approached 
and  asked  me  for  a  sou.  I  thought  her  a  beggar 
until  she  returned  the  change  from  a  fifty  centimes 
piece  which  I  had  given  her,  explaining  that  one 
sou  was  the  price  of  my  seat.  There  were  free 
seats  too,  I  discovered  after  I  had  paid. 

The  Luxembourg  Gardens  have  always  retained 
their  hold  over  my  imagination.  I  never  visit  Paris 
without  spending  several  hours  there,  sometimes 
in  the  bright  morning  light,  sometimes  in  the  late 
afternoon,  when  the  .military  band  plays  dolent 
tunes,  usually  by  Massenet,  sometimes  a  spectator 
at  one  of  the  guignols  and,  very  often  in  the 
autumn,  when  the  leaves  are  falling,  I  sit  silently 
on  a  bench  before  the  Medici  fountain,  entirely 
unconscious  of  the  passing  of  time.  The  Luxem 
bourg  Gardens  always  envelop  me  in  a  sentimental 
mood.  Their  atmosphere  is  softly  poetic,  old-fash 
ioned,  melancholy.  I  am  near  to  tears  now,  merely 
thinking  of  them,  and  I  am  sure  the  tears  came  to 

[24] 


His  Life  and  Works 

my  eyes  even  on  that  bright  May  morning  four 
teen  years  ago. 

Did  I,  attracted  by  the  strange  name,  lunch  at 
the  Deux-Magots  ?  It  is  possible.  I  know  that 
later  I  strolled  down  the  Rue  de  Seine  and  along 
the  quais,  examining  eighteenth  century  books,  buy 
ing  old  numbers  of  1'Assiette  au  Beurre,  and  talking 
with  the  quaint  vendors,  most  of  them  old  men. 
Then  I  wandered  up  the  Rue  de  Richelieu,  studying 
the  examples  of  fine  bindings  in  the  windows  of  the 
shops  on  either  hand.  About  three  o'clock,  I 
mounted  the  imperiale  of  a  bus,  not  even  asking 
where  it  was  going.  I  didn't  care.  I  descended 
before  the  gate  of  the  Pare  Monceau  and  passed  a 
few  happy  moments  in  the  presence  of  the  marble 
lady  in  a  dress  of  the  nineties,  who  reads  Guy  de 
Maupassant  in  the  shadow  of  his  bust,  and  a  few 
more  by  the  Naumachie,  the  oval  pool,  flanked  by 
a  semi-circular  Corinthian  colonnade  in  a  state  of 
picturesque  ruin. 

At  a  quarter  before  four,  I  left  the  pare  and, 
hailing  a  fiacre,  bade  the  driver  take  me  to  Martha 
Baker's  studio  in  the  Avenue  Victor  Hugo,  where 
I  had  an  appointment.  Martha  was  painting  my 
portrait.  She  had  begun  work  on  the  picture  in 
Chicago  the  year  before  but  when  I  went  to  New 
York,  she  went  to  Paris.  So  it  was  still  unfinished 
and  I  had  promised  to  come  to  her  for  more  sit 
tings.  Now,  in  Chicagb,  Martha  noted  that  I 
grew  restless  on  the  model-stand  and  she  had  found 

[25] 


Peter  Whiffle 

it  expedient  to  ask  people  in  to  talk  to  me,  so  that 
my  face  would  not  become  dead  and  sullen.  There, 
I  usually  knew  the  people  she  would  ask,  but  it  oc 
curred  to  me,  as  I  was  driving  to  her  door,  that  in 
Paris  I  knew  no  one,  so  that,  if  she  followed  her 
habit,  I  would  see  new  faces. 

The  cocher  stopped  his  horse  before  an  old  stone 
house  and  I  entered.  Challenged  by  the  concierge, 
I  asked  for  Mademoiselle  Bahker,  and  was  direc 
ted  to  go  through  the  courtyard  into  a  back 
passageway,  up  the  stairs,  where  I  would  find  Mad 
emoiselle  Bahker,  troisieme  a  gauche.  I  followed 
these  instructions  and  knocked  at  the  door. 
Martha,  herself,  opened  it. 

Oh,   Carl,   it's  you!     I'm  so  glad  to  see  you! 

Martha  had  not  changed.  She  and  even  her 
studio  were  much  as  they  had  been  in  Chicago.  She 
is  dead  now,  dead  possibly  of  a  broken  heart;  cer 
tainly  she  was  never  happy.  Her  Insouciance,  the 
portrait  of  Elizabeth  Buehrmann,  in  a  green  cloth 
dress  trimmed  with  fur,  and  a  miniature  or  two  hang 
in  the  Art  Institute  in  Chicago,  but  during  her  life 
time  she  never  received  the  kind  of  appreciation  she 
really  craved.  She  had  an  uncanny  talent  for  por 
traiture,  a  talent  which  in  some  respects  I  have  never 
seen  equalled  by  any  of  her  coevals.  Artists,  as  a 
matter  of  fact,  generally  either  envied  or  admired 
her.  Her  peculiar  form  of  genius  lay  in  the  facil 
ity  with  which  she  caught  her  sitters'  weaknesses. 
Possibly  this  is  the  reason  she  did  not  sell  more 

[26] 


His  Life  and  Works 

pictures,  for  her  models  were  frequently  dissatis 
fied.  It  was  exasperating,  doubtless,  to  find  one 
self  caught  in  paint  on  canvas  against  an  un 
enviable  immortality.  Her  sitters  were  exposed, 
so  to  speak;  petty  vices  shone  forth;  Martha  almost 
idealized  the  faults  of  her  subjects.  It  would  be 
impossible  for  the  model  to  strut  or  pose  before 
one  of  her  pictures.  It  told  the  truth.  Sargent 
caught  the  trick  once.  I  have  been  informed  that 
a  physician  diagnosed  the  malady  of  an  American 
lady,  his  patient,  after  studying  Sargent's  portrait 
of  her. 

Martha  should  have  painted  our  presidents,  our 
mayors,  our  politicians,  our  authors,  our  college 
presidents,  and  our  critics.  Posterity  might  have 
learned  more  from  such  portraits  than  from  vol 
umes  of  psychoanalytic  biography.  But  most  of  her 
sitters  were  silly  Chicago  ladies,  not  particularly 
weak  because  they  were  not  particularly  strong. 
On  the  few  occasions  on  which  in  her  capacity  as  an 
artist  she  had  faced  character,  her  brushes  uner 
ringly  depicted  something  beneath  the  surface.  She 
tore  away  men's  masks  and,  with  a  kind  of 
mystic  understanding,  painted  their  insides.  How 
it  was  done,  I  don't  know.  Probably  she  herself 
didn't  know.  Many  an  artist  is  ignorant  of  the 
secret  of  his  own  method.  If  I  had  ascribed  this 
quality  to  Martha  during  her  lifetime,  which  I 
never  did,  she  might  not  have  taken  it  as  praise. 
It  may  not,  indeed,  have  been  her  ambition,  al- 

[27] 


Peter  Whiffle 

though  truth  was  undoubtedly  her  ambition.  Spec 
ulation  aside,  this  was  no  art  for  Chicago.  I  doubt, 
indeed,  if  it  would  have  been  popular  anywhere,  for 
men  the  world  over  are  alike  in  this,  that  they  not 
only  prefer  to  be  painted  in  masks,  they  even  want 
the  artist  to  flatter  the  mask  a  bit. 

The  studio,  I  observed  at  once,  was  a  little  arty, 
a  little  more  arty  than  a  painter's  studio  usually  is. 
It  was  arranged,  of  that  there  could  be  no  doubt. 
There  were,  to  be  sure,  canvases  stacked  against 
the  wall  in  addition  to  those  which  were  hanging, 
but  they  had  been  stacked  with  a  crafty  hand,  one 
indubious  of  its  effect.  For  the  rest,  the  tables  and 
couches  were  strewn  with  brocades  and  laces,  and 
lilacs  and  mimosa  bloomed  in  brown  and  blue  and 
green  earthenware  bowls  on  the  tables.  Later,  I 
knew  that  marigolds  and  zinnias  would  replace 
these  and,  later  still,  violets  and  gardenias.  On 
an  easel  stood  my  unfinished  portrait  and  a  palette 
and  a  box  of  paints  lay  on  a  stool  nearby. 

Martha  herself  wore  a  soft,  clinging,  dark-green 
woolen  dress,  almost  completely  covered  by  a  brown 
denim  painter's  blouse.  Her  hair  was  her  great 
glory,  long,  reddish  gold  Melisande  hair  which, 
when  uncoiled,  hung  far  below  her  knees,  but  today 
it  was  knotted  loosely  on  top  of  her  head.  Her 
face,  keen  and  searching,  wore  an  expression  that 
might  be  described  as  wistful;  discontent  lurked 
somewhere  between  her  eyes  and  her  mouth.  Her 
complexion  was  sallow  and  she  wore  eye-glasses. 

[28] 


His  Life  and  Works 

There  was  some  one  else  present,  a  girl,  sitting 
in  a  shadowy  corner,  who  rose  as  I  entered.  A 
strong  odour  of  Coeur  de  Jeannette  hovered  about 
her.  She  was  an  American.  She  was  immediately 
introduced  as  Miss  Clara  Barnes  of  Chicago,  but  I 
would  have  known  she  was  an  American  had  she  not 
been  so  introduced.  She  wore  a  shirt-waist  and 
skirt.  She  had  very  black  hair,  parted  in  the  middle, 
a  face  that  it  would  have  been  impossible  to  remem 
ber  ten  minutes  and  which  now,  although  I  have  seen 
her  many  times  since,  I  have  completely  forgotten, 
and  very  thick  ankles.  I  gathered  presently  that 
she  was  in  Paris  to  study  singing  as  were  so  many 
girls  like  her.  Very  soon,  I  sized  her  up  as  the 
kind  of  girl  who  thinks  that  antimacassars  are  otto 
mans,  that  tripe  is  a  variety  of  fish,  that  Cos!  Fan 
Tutte  is  an  Italian  ice  cream,  that  the  pope's  nose  is 
a  nasal  appendage  which  has  been  blessed  by  the 
head  of  the  established  church,  that  The  Beast  in 
the  Jungle  is  an  animal  story,  and  that  when  one  says 
Arthur  Machen  one  means  Harry  Mencken. 

Well,  we'd  best  begin,  said  Martha.     It's  late. 

Isn't  it  too  late  ?  I  was  rather  surprised  when  you 
asked  me  to  come  in  the  afternoon. 

Martha  smiled  but  there  was  a  touch  of  petulance 
in  her  reply:  I  knew  you  wouldn't  get  up  very 
early  the  morning  after  your  first  night  in  Paris,  and 
I  knew  if  I  didn't  get  you  here  today  there  would  be 
small  chance  of  getting  you  here  at  all.  If  you  come 
again,  of  course  it  will  be  in  the  morning. 

[29] 


Peter  Whiffle 

I  climbed  to  the  model-chair,  seated  myself, 
grasped  the  green  book  that  was  part  of  the 
composition,  and  automatically  assumed  that  woe 
begone  expression  that  is  worn  by  all  amateurs 
who  pose  for  their  portraits. 

That  won't  do  at  all,  said  Martha.  I  asked  Clara 
to  come  here  to  amuse  you. 

Clara  tried.  She  told  me  that  she  was  studying 
Manon  and  that  she  had  been  to  the  Opera-Comique 
fifteen  times  to  hear  the  opera. 

Garden  is  all  wrong  in  it,  all  wrong,  she  continued. 
In  the  first  place  she  can't  sing.  Of  course  she's 
pretty,  but  she's  not  my  idea  of  Manon  at  all.  I  will 
really  sing  the  part  and  act  it  too. 

A  month  or  two  later,  while  we  munched  sand 
wiches  and  drank  beer  between  the  acts  of  Tristan 
und  Isolde  in  the  foyer  of  the  Prinzregenten  The 
ater  in  Munich,  Olive  Fremstad  introduced  me  to  an 
American  girl,  who  informed  me  that  a  new  Isolde 
had  been  born  that  day. 

I  shall  be  the  great  Isolde,  she  remarked  casually, 
and  her  name,  I  gathered,  when  I  asked  Madame 
Fremstad  to  repeat  it,  was  Minnie  Saltzmann- 
Stevens. 

But  on  the  day  that  Clara  spoke  of  her  future  tri 
umphs  in  Manon,  I  had  yet  to  become  accustomed 
to  this  confidence  with  which  beginners  in  the  vocal 
art  seem  so  richly  endowed,  a  confidence  which  is 
frequently  disturbed  by  circumstances  for,  as  George 
Moore  has  somewhere  said,  our  dreams  and  our 

[30] 


His  Life  and  Works 

circumstances  are  often  in  conflict.  Later,  I  dis 
covered  that  every  unsuccessful  singer  believes,  and 
asserts,  that  Geraldine  Farrar  is  instrumental  in 
preventing  her  from  singing  at  the  Metropolitan 
Opera  House.  On  this  day,  I  say,  I  was  unaware 
of  this  peculiarity  in  vocalists  but  I  was  interested 
in  the  name  she  had  let  slip,  a  name  I  had  never 
before  heard. 

Who  is  Garden?  I  asked. 

You  don't  know  Mary  Garden!  exclaimed  Mar 
tha. 

There!  shrieked  Clara.  There!  I  told  you  so. 
No  one  outside  of  Paris  has  ever  even  heard  of  the 
woman. 

Well,  they've  heard  of  her  here,  said  Martha, 
quietly,  pinching  a  little  worm  of  cobalt  blue  from 
a  tube.  She's  the  favourite  singer  of  the  Opera- 
Comique.  She  is  an  American  and  she  sings  Louise 
and  Manon  and  Traviata  and  Melisande  and 
Aphrodite,  especially  Aphrodite. 

She's  singing  Aphrodite  tonight,  said  Miss 
Barnes. 

And  what  is  she  like?  I  queried. 

Well,  Clara  began  dubiously,  she  is  said  to  be 
like  Sybil  Sanderson  but,  of  course,  Sanderson  had 
a  voice  and,  she  hurried  on,  you  know  even  Sander 
son  never  had  any  success  in  New  York. 

I  recalled,  only  too  readily,  how  Manon  with  Jean 
de  Reszke,  Pol  Plangon,  and  Sybil  Sanderson  in 
the  cast  had  failed  in  the  nineties  at  the  Metro- 

[31] 


Peter  Whiffle 

politan  Opera  House,  and  I  admitted  as  much  to 
(Clara. 

But  would  this  be  true  today?  I  pondered. 

Certainly,  advanced  Clara.  America  doesn't 
want  French  singers.  They  never  know  how  to  sing. 

But  you  are  studying  in  Paris. 

The  girl  began  to  look  discomfited. 

With  an  Italian  teacher,  she  asseverated. 

It  delighted  me  to  be  able  to  add,  I  think  Sander 
son  studied  with  Sbriglia  and  Madame  Marchesi. 

Your  face  is  getting  very  hard,  cried  Martha  in 
despair. 

I  think  he  is  very  rude,  exclaimed  the  outraged 
and  contumacious  Miss  Barnes,  with  a  kind  of  leer 
ing  acidity.  He  doesn't  seem  to  know  the  difference 
between  tradition  and  impertinent  improvisation. 
He  doesn't  see  that  singing  at  the  Opera  or  the 
Opera-Comique  with  a  lot  of  rotten  French  singers 
would  ruin  anybody  who  didn't  have  training  enough 
to  stand  out  against  this  influence,  singing  utterly  un 
musical  parts  like  Melisande,  too,  parlando  roles  cal 
culated  to  ruin  any  voice.  Maeterlinck  won't  even 
go  to  hear  the  opera,  it's  so  rotten.  I  wonder  how 
much  Mr.  Van  Vechten  knows  about  music  anyway? 

Very  little,  I  remarked  mildly. 

O!  wailed  Martha,  you're  not  entertaining  Carl 
at  all  and  I  can't  paint  when  you  squabble.  Carl's 
very  nice.  Why  can't  you  be  agreeable,  Clara? 
What  is  the  matter? 

Miss  Barnes  disdained  to  reply.     She  drew  her- 

[32] 


His  Life  and  Works 

self  into  a  sort  of  sulk,  crossing  her  thick  ankles 
massively.  The  scent  of  Coeur  de  Jeannette  seemed 
to  grow  heavier.  Within  bounds,  I  was  amused  by 
her  display  of  emotion  but  I  was  also  bored.  My 
face  must  have  showed  it.  Martha  worked  on 
for  a  moment  or  two  and  then  flung  down  her 
brushes. 

It's  no  good,  no  good  at  all,  she  announced. 
You  have  no  expression  today.  I  can't  get  behind 
your  mask.  Your  face  is  completely  empty. 

And,  I  may  add,  as  this  was  the  last  day  that 
Martha  ever  painted  on  this  portrait,  she  never  did 
get  behind  the  mask.  To  that  extent  I  triumphed, 
and  the  picture  still  exists  to  confuse  people  as  to 
my  real  personality.  It  is  as  empty  as  if  it  had 
been  painted  by  Boldini  or  McEvoy.  Fortunately 
for  her  future  reputation  in  this  regard,  Martha 
had  already  painted  a  portrait  of  me  which  is  suffi 
ciently  revealing. 

I  must  have  stretched  and  yawned  at  this  point, 
for  Martha  looked  cross,  when  a  welcome  inter 
ruption  occurred  in  the  form  of  a  knock  at  the 
door.  Martha  walked  across  the  room.  As  she 
opened  the  door,  directly  opposite  where  I  was  sit 
ting,  I  saw  the  slender  figure  of  a  young  man,  per 
haps  twenty-one  years  old.  He  was  carefully 
dressed  in  a  light  grey  suit  with  a  herring-bone  pat 
tern,  and  wore  a  neck-scarf  of  deep  blue.  He  car 
ried  a  stick  and  buckskin  gloves  in  one  hand  and  a 
straw  hat  in  the  other. 

[33] 


Peter  Whiffle 

Why,  it's  Peter !  cried  Martha.  I  wish  you  had 
come  sooner. 

This  is  Peter  Whiffle,  she  said,  leading  him  into 
the  room  and  then,  as  he  extended  his  hand  to  me, 
You  know  Clara  Barnes. 

He  turned  away  to  bow  but  I  had  already  caught 
his  interesting  face,  his  deep  blue  eyes  that  shifted 
rather  uneasily  but  at  the  same  time  remained 
honest  and  frank,  his  clear,  simple  expression,  his 
high  brow,  his  curly,  blue-black  hair,  carefully 
parted  down  the  centre  of  his  head.  He  spoke  to  me 
at  once. 

Martha  has  said  a  good  deal,  perhaps  too  much 
about  you.  Still,  I  have  wanted  to  meet  you. 

You  must  tell  me  who  you  are,  I  replied. 

I  should  have  told  you,  only  you  just  arrived, 
Martha  put  in.  I  had  no  idea  that  Peter  would 
come  in  today.  He  is  the  American  Flaubert  or 
Anatole  France  or  something.  He  is  writing  a 
book.  What  is  your  book  about,  Peter? 

Whiffle  smiled,  drew  out  a  cigarette-case  of 
Toledo  work,  extracted  a  cigarette  from  it,  and 
said,  I  haven't  the  slightest  idea.  Then,  as  if  he 
thought  this  might  be  construed  as  rudeness,  or  false 
modesty,  or  a  rather  viscous  attempt  at  secrecy,  he 
added,  I  really  haven't,  not  the  remotest.  I  want 
to  talk  to  you  about  it ....  That's  why  I  wanted 
to  meet  you.  Martha  says  that  you  know  .  .  .  well, 
that  you  know. 

[34] 


His  Life  and  Works 

You  really  should  be  painting  Mr.  Van  Vechten 
now,  said  Clara  Barnes,  with  a  trace  of  malice.  He 
has  the  right  expression. 

I  hope  I  haven't  interrupted  your  work,  said 
Peter. 

No,  I'm  through  today,  Martha  rejoined.  We're 
neither  of  us  in  the  mood.  Besides  it's  absurd  to 
try  to  paint  in  this  light. 

Painting,  Peter  went  on,  is  not  any  easier  than 
writing.  Always  the  search  for — for  what?  he 
asked  suddenly,  turning  to  me. 

For  truth,  I  suppose,  I  replied. 

I  thought  you  would  say  that  but  that's  not  what 
I  meant,  that's  not  at  all  what  I  meant. 

This  logogriph  rather  concluded  that  subject, 
for  Peter  did  not  explain  what  it  was  that  he  did 
mean.  Neither  did  he  wear  a  conscious  air  of 
obfuscation.  He  rambled  on  about  many  things, 
spoke  of  new  people,  new  books,  new  music,  and  he 
also  mentioned  Mary  Garden. 

I  have  heard  of  Mary  Garden  for  the  first  time 
today,  I  said,  and  I  am  beginning  to  be  interested. 

You  haven't  seen  her?  demanded  Peter.  But 
she  is  stupendous,  soul,  body,  imagination,  intellect, 
everything!  How  few  there  are.  A  lyric  Melis- 
ande,  a  caressing  Manon,  a  throbbingly  wicked 
Chrysis.  She  is  the  cult  in  Paris  and  the  Opera- 
Comique  is  the  Temple  where  she  is  worshipped.  I 
think  some  day  this  new  religion  will  be  carried  to 

[35] 


Peter  Whiffle 

America.  He  stopped.  Let  me  see,  what  am  I 
doing  tonight?  O!  yes,  I  know.  I  won't  do  that. 
Will  you  go  with  me  to  hear  Aphrodite? 

Of  course,  I  will.  I  have  just  come  to  Paris 
and  I  want  to  do  and  hear  and  see  everything. 

Well,  we'll  go,  he  announced,  but  I  noted  that 
his  tone  was  curiously  indecisive.  We'll  go  to 
dinner  first. 

You're  not  going  to  dinner  yet?  Martha  de 
manded  rather  querulously. 

Not  quite  yet.  Then,  turning  to  Clara,  How's 
the  Voice? 

It  was  my  first  intimation  that  Clara  had  thus 
symbolized  her  talent  in  the  third  person.  People 
were  not  expected  to  refer  to  her  as  Clara  or  Miss 
Barnes;  she  was  the  Voice. 

The  Voice  is  doing  very  well  indeed,  Clara,  now 
quite  mollified,  rejoined.  I'm  studying  Manon,  and 
if  you  like  Mary  Garden,  wait  until  you  hear  me ! 

Peter  continued  to  manipulate  Clara  with  the 
proper  address.  The  conversation  bubbled  or  lan 
guished,  I  forget  which;  at  any  rate,  a  half  hour 
or  so  later,  Peter  and  I  were  seated  in  a  taxi-cab, 
bound  for  Foyot's  where  he  had  decided  we  would 
dine;  at  least  I  thought  he  had  decided,  but  soon 
he  seemed  doubtful. 

Foyot's,  Foyot's,  he  rolled  the  name  meditatively 
over  on  his  tongue.  I  don't  know.  .  .  . 

We  leaned  back  against  the  seat  and  drank  in  the 
soft  air.  I  don't  think  that  we  talked  very  much. 

[36] 


His  Life  and  Works 

The  cocher  was  driving  over  the  bridge  of  Alex- 
andre  III  with  its  golden  horses  gleaming  in  the  late 
afternoon  sunlight  when  Peter  bent  forward  and 
addressed  him, 

Allez  au  Cafe  Anglais. 

Where  meant  nothing  to  me,  but  I  was  a  little 
surprised  at  his  hesitation.  The  cocher  changed 
his  route,  grumbling  a  bit,  for  he  was  out  of  his 
course. 

I  don't  know  why  I  ever  suggested  Foyot,  said 
Peter,  or  the  Cafe  Anglais  either.  We'll  go  to  the 
Petit  Riche. 


[37] 


Chapter  III 

If  the  reader  has  been  led  to  expect  a  chapter 
devoted  to  an  account  of  Mary  Garden  in  Aphro 
dite,  he  will  be  disappointed.  I  did  not  see  Mary 
Garden  that  evening,  nor  for  many  evenings  there 
after,  and  I  do  not  remember,  indeed,  that  Peter 
Whiffle  ever  referred  to  her  again.  We  dined  at 
a  quiet  little  restaurant,  Boilaive  by  name,  near 
the  Folies-Bergere.  The  interior,  as  bare  of  dec 
oration  as  are  most  such  interiors  in  Paris,  where 
the  food  and  wines  are  given  more  consideration 
than  the  mural  paintings,  was  no  larger  than  that 
of  a  small  shop.  My  companion  led  me  straight 
to  a  tiny  winding  staircase  in  one  corner,  which  we 
ascended,  and  presently  we  found  ourselves  in  a 
private  room,  with  three  tables  in  it,  to  be  sure,  but 
two  of  these  remained  unoccupied.  We  began  our 
dinner  with  escargots  a  la  bordelaise,  which  I  was 
eating  for  the  first  time,  but  I  have  never  been 
squeamish  about  novel  food.  A  man  with  a  broad 
taste  in  food  is  inclined  to  be  tolerant  in  regard  to 
everything.  Also,  when  he  begins  to  understand 
the  cooking  of  a  nation,  he  is  on  the  way  to  an  un 
derstanding  of  the  nation  itself.  There  were  many 
other  dishes,  but  I  particularly  remember  a  navarin 
because  Peter  spoke  of  it,  pointing  out  that  every 

[38] 


His  Life  and  Works 

country  has  one  dish  in  which  it  is  honourable  to  put 
whatever  is  left  over  in  the  larder.  In  China  (or 
out  of  it,  in  Chinese  restaurants),  this  dish  is  called 
chop  suey;  in  Ireland,  Irish  stew;  in  Spain,  olla  or  , 
puchero;  in  France,  ragout  or  navarin;  in  Italy, 
minestra ;  and  in  America,  hash.  We  lingered  over 
such  matters,  getting  acquainted,  so  to  speak, 
passing  through  the  polite  stages  of  early  con 
versation,  slipping  beyond  the  poses  that  one  un 
consciously  assumes  with  a  new  friend.  I  think 
I  did  most  of  the  talking,  although  Whiffle  told  me 
that  he  had  come  from  Ohio,  that  he  was  in  Paris 
on  a  sort  of  mission,  something  to  do  with  liter 
ature,  I  gathered.  We  ate  and  drank  slowly  and 
it  must  have  been  nearly  ten  when  he  paid  the 
bill  and  we  drove  away,  this  time  to  Fouquet's,  an 
open-air  restaurant  in  the  Champs-Elysees,  where 
we  sat  on  the  broad  terrasse  and  drank  many  bocks,  . 
so  many,  indeed,  that  by  the  time  we  had  decided 
to  settle  our  account,  the  saucers  in  front  of  us 
were  piled  almost  to  our  chins.  We  should  prob 
ably  have  remained  there  all  night,  had  he  not 
suggested  that  I  go  to  his  rooms  with  him.  That 
night,  my  second  in  Paris,  I  would  have  gone  any 
where  with  any  one.  But  there  was  that  in  Peter 
Whiffle  which  had  awakened  both  my  interest  and 
my  curiosity  for  I,  too,  had  the  ambition  to  write, 
and  it  seemed  to  me  possible  that  I  was  in  the  pres 
ence  of  a  writing  man,  an  author. 

We  entered  another  taxi-auto  or  fiacre,  I  don't 

[39] 


Peter  Whiffle 

remember  and  it  doesn't  matter,  there  were  so 
many  peregrinations  in  those  days,  and  we  drove  to 
an  apartment  house  in  a  little  street  near  the  Rue 
Blanche.  The  house  being  modern,  there  was  an 
ascenseur  and  I  experienced  for  the  first  time  the 
thrill  of  one  of  those  little  personally  conducted 
lifts,  in  which  you  press  your  own  button  and  take 
your  own  chances.  Since  that  night  I  have  had 
many  strange  misadventures  with  these  intransi 
gent  elevators,  but  on  this  occasion,  miraculously, 
the  machine  stopped  at  the  fourth  floor,  as  it  had 
been  bidden,  and  soon  we  were  in  the  sitting-room 
of  Whiffle's  apartment,  a  room  which  I  still  remem 
ber,  although  subsequently  I  have  been  in  half  a 
dozen  of  his  other  rooms  in  various  localities. 

It  was  very  orderly,  this  room,  although  not  ex 
actly  arranged,  at  any  rate  not  arranged  like 
Martha's  studio,  as  if  to  set  object  against  object 
and  colour  against  colour.  It  was  a  neat  little 
ivory  French  room,  with  a  white  fire-place,  picked 
in  gold,  surmounted  by  a  gilt  clock  and  Louis  XVI 
candlesticks.  There  were  charming  aquatints  on 
the  ivory  walls  and  chairs  and  tables  of  the  Empire 
period.  The  tables  were  laden  with  neat  piles  of 
pamphlets.  Beside  a  type-writer,  was  ranged  a 
heap  of  note-books  at  least  a  foot  high  and  stacked 
on  the  floor  in  one  corner  there  were  other  books, 
formidable-looking  volumes  of  weight  and  heft, 
4 'thick  bulky  octavos  with  cut-and-come-again  ex 
pressions,"  apparently  dictionaries  and  lexicons. 

[40] 


I 

His  Life  and  Works 

An  orange  Persian  cat  lay  asleep  in  one  of  the 
chairs  as  we  entered,  but  he  immediately  stretched 
himself,  extending  his  noble  paws,  yawning  and 
arching  his  back,  and  then  came  forward  to  greet 
us,  purring. 

Hello,  George!  cried  Whiffle,  as  the  cat  waved 
his  magnificent  red  tail  back  and  forth  and  rubbed 
himself  against  Peter's  leg. 

George?     I  queried. 

Yes,  that's  George  Moore.  He  goes  every 
where  with  me  in  a  basket,  when  I  travel,  and  he 
is  just  as  contented  in  Toledo  as  he  is  in  Paris, 
anywhere  there  is  raw  meat  to  be  had.  Places 
mean  nothing  to  him.  My  best  friend. 

I  sat  in  one  of  the  chairs  and  lit  a  cigarette. 
Peter  brought  out  a  bottle  of  cognac  and  a  couple 
of  glasses.  He  threw  open  the  shutters  and  the 
soft  late  sounds  of  the  city  filtered  in  with  the  fresh 
spring  air.  One  could  just  hear  the  faint  tinkle 
of  an  orchestra  at  some  distant  bal. 

I  like  you,  Van  Vechten,  my  host  began  at  last, 
and  I've  got  to  talk  to  somebody.  My  work  has 
just  begun  and  there's  so  much  to  say  about  it. 
Tell  me  to  stop  when  you  get  tired.  ...  In  a 
way,  I  want  to  know  what  you  think;  in  another 
way,  it  helps  me  merely  to  talk,  in  the  working  out 
of  my  ideas.  But  who  was  there  to  talk  to,  I 
mean  before  you  came?  I  can  see  that  you  may 
be  interested  in  what  I  am  trying  to  do,  good  God ! 
in  what  I  will  do !  I've  done  a  lot  already.  .  .  . 

[41] 


T(4»S  i  S 

Peter  Whiffle 

You  have  begun  your  book  then? 

Well,  you  might  say  so,  but  I  haven't  written  a 
line.  I've  collected  the  straw;  the  bricks  will 
come.  I've  not  been  idle.  You  see  those  cata 
logues  ? 

I  nodded. 

He  fumbled  them  over.  Then,  without  a  break, 
with  a  strange  glow  of  exhilaration  on  his  pale 
ethereal  face,  his  eyes  flashing,  his  hands  gestic 
ulating,  his  body  swaying,  marching  up  and 
down  the  room,  he  recited  with  a  crescendo  which 
mounted  to  a  magnificent  fortissimo  in  the  coda : 

Perfumery  catalogues :  Coty,  Houbigant,  Atkin 
son,  Rigaud,  Rue  de  la  Paix,  Bond  Street,  Place 
Vendome,  Regent  Street,  Nirvana,  Chypre,  Sakoun- 
tala,  Ambre,  Apres  FOndee,  Quelques  Fleurs, 
Fougere  Royale,  Myrbaha,  Yavahnah,  Gaudika, 
Delices  de  Pera,  Coeur  de  Jeannette,  Djer  Kiss, 
Jockey-Club,  and  the  Egyptian  perfumes,  Myrrh 
and  Kyphy.  Did  you  know  that  Richelieu  lived 
in  an  atmosphere  heavily  laden  with  the  most  pun 
gent  perfumes  to  inflame  .his  sexual  imagination? 
Automobile  catalogues:  Mercedes,  Rolls-Royce, 
Ford,  tires,  self-starters,  limousines,  carburettors, 
gas.  Jewellery  catalogues:  heaps  of  'em,  all  about 
diamonds  and  platinum,  chrysoprase  and  jade,  mal 
achite  and  chalcedony,  amethysts  and  garnets,  and 
the  emerald,  the  precious  stone  which  comes  the 
nearest  to  approximating  that  human  manifestation 
known  as  art,  because  it  always  has  flaws;  red  jas- 

[42] 


and  Works 

per,  sacred  to  the  rosy  god,  Bacchus,  the  green 
plasma,  blood-stone,  cornelian,  cat's-eye,  amber, 
with  its  medicinal  properties,  the  Indian  jewels, 
spinels,  the  reddish  orange  jacinth,  and  the  violet 
almandine.  Did  you  know  that  the  Emperor 
Claudius  used  to  clothe  himself  in  smaragds  and  sar 
donyx  stones  and  that  Pope  Paul  II  died  of  a  cold 
caught  from  the  weight  and  chill  of  the  rings  which 
loaded  his  aged  fingers?  Are  you  aware  that  the 
star-topaz  is  as  rare  as  a  Keutschacher  Rubentaler 
of  the  year  1504?  Yonder  is  a  volume  which  treats 
of  the  glyptic  lore.  In  it  you  may  read  of  the  As 
syrian  cylinders  fashioned  from  red  and  green  ser 
pentine,  the  Egyptian  scarabei,  carved  in  steaschist; 
you  may  learn  of  the  seal-cutters  of  Nineveh  and 
of  the  Signet  of  Sennacherib,  now  preserved  in  the 
British  Museum.  Do  you  know  that  a  jewel  en 
graved  with  Hercules  at  the  fountain  was"  deposited 
in  the  tomb  of  the  Prankish  King  Childeric  at 
Tournay?  Do  you  know  of  Mnesarchus,  the 
Tyrrhene  gem-cutter,  who  practised  his  art  at 
Samos?  Have  you  seen  the  Julia  of  Evodus, 
engraved  in  a  giant  aquamarine,  or  the  Byzantine 
topaz,  carved  with  the  figure  of  the  blind  bow-boy, 
sacrificing  the  Psyche-butterfly,  or  the  emerald 
signet  of  Polycrates,  with  the  lyre  cut  upon  it,  or 
the  Etruscan  peridot  representing  a  sphinx  scratch 
ing  her  ear  with  her  hind  paw,  or  the  sapphire,  dis 
covered  in  a  disused  well  at  Hereford,  in  which  the 
head  of  the  Madonna  has  been  chiseled,  with  the 

[43] 


Peter  Whiffle 

inscription,  round  the  beasil,  in  Lombard  letters, 
TECTA  LEGE  LECTA  TEGE,  or  the  jacinth  engraved 
with  the  triple  face  of  Baphomet,  with  a 
legend  of  darkly  obscene  purport?  The  breast 
plate  of  the  Jewish  High  Priest  had  its  oracular 
gems,  which  were  the  Urim  and  Thummim.  Apol- 
lonius  Tyaneus,  the  sorcerer,  for  the  pur 
poses  of  his  enchantments,  wore  special  rings  with 
appropriate  stones  for  each  day  of  the  week. 
Also,  in  this  curious  book,  and  others  which  you 
may  examine,  such  as  George  Ill's  Dactyliotheca 
Smithiana  (Venice;  1767),  you  will  find  some  ac 
count  of  the  gems  of  the  Gnostics;  an  intaglio  in 
a  pale  convex  plasma,  carved  with  the  Chnuphis 
Serpent,  raising  himself  aloft,  with  the  seven  vowels, 
the  elements  of  his  name,  above;  another 
jewel  engraved  with  the  figure  of  the  jackal- 
headed  Anubis,  the  serpent  with  the  lion's  head,  the 
infant  Horus,  seated  on  the  lotus,  the  cynocephalus 
baboon,  and  the  Abraxas-god,  lao,  created  from  the 
four  elements;  an  Egyptian  seal  of  the  god,  Har- 
pocrates,  seated  on  the  mystic  lotus,  in  adoration 
of  the  Yoni;  and  an  esoteric  green  jasper  amulet 
in  the  form  of  a  dragon,  surrounded  by  rays. 
Florists'  catalogues :  strangely  wicked  cyclamens, 
meat-eating  begonias,  beloved  of  des  Esseintes 
(Henri  Matisse  grows  these  peccant  plants  in  his 
garden  and  they  suggest  his  work),  shaggy  chrysan 
themums,  orchids,  green,  white,  and  mauve,  the 
veined  salpiglossis,  the  mournful,  rich-smelling 

[44] 


His  Life  and  Works 

tube-rose,  all  the  mystic  blossoms  adored  by  Robert 
de  la  Condamine's  primitive,  tortured,  orgiastic 
saints  in  The  Double  Garden,  marigolds  and  dai 
sies,  the  most  complex  and  the  most  simple  flowers 
of  all,  hypocritical  fuchsias,  and  calceolaria,  sacred 
to  la  bella  Cenerentola.  Reaper  catalogues:  you 
know,  the  McCormicks  and  the  Middle  West.  Por 
celain  catalogues:  Rookwood,  Royal  Doulton, 
Wedgwood,  Delft,  the  quaint,  clean,  heavy,  charm 
ing  Brittany  ware,  Majolica,  the  wondrous  Chinese 
porcelains,  self-colour,  sang  de  boeuf,  apple  of  roses, 
peach-blow,  Sevres,  signed  with  the  fox  of  Emile 
Renard,  or  the  eye  of  Pajou,  or  the  little  house  of 
Jean-Jacques  Anteaume.  Furniture  catalogues: 
Adam  and  Louis  XV,  Futurist,  Empire,  Venetian 
and  Chinese,  Poincare  and  Grand  Rapids.  Art- 
dealers'  catalogues :  Felicien  Rops  and  Jo  David 
son,  Renoir  and  Franz  Hals,  Cranach  and  Picasso, 
Manet  and  Carpaccio.  Book-dealers'  catalogues: 
George  Borrow,  Thomas  Love  Peacock,  Ambrose 
Bierce,  William  Beckford,  Robert  Smith  Surtees, 
Francis  William  Bain.  Do  you  know  the  true 
story  of  Ambrose  Gwinett,  related  by  Oliver  Gold 
smith  :  the  fellow  who,  having  been  hanged  and 
gibbeted  for  murdering  a  traveller  with  whom  he 
had  shared  his  bed-chamber  at  a  tavern,  revived 
in  the  night,  shipped  at  sea  as  a  sailor,  and  later 
met  on  a  vessel  the  man  for  whose  murder  he  had 
been  hung?  Gwinett's  supposed  victim  had  been 
attacked  during  the  night  with  a  severe  bleeding 

[45] 


Peter  Whiffle 

of  the  nose,  had  risen  and  left  the  house  for  a  walk 
by  the  sea-wall,  and  had  been  shanghaied.  Cata 
logues  of  curious  varieties  of  cats:  Australian, 
with  long  noses  and  long  hind-legs,  like  kangaroos, 
Manx  cats  without  any  tails  and  chocolate  and  fawn 
Siamese  cats  with  sapphire  eyes,  the  cacodorous 
Russian  blue  cats,  and  male  tortoise-shells.  Cata 
logues  of  tinshops:  tin  plates,  tin  cups,  and  can- 
openers.  Catalogues  of  laces:  Valenciennes  and 
Cluny  and  Chantilly  and  double-knot,  Punto  in  Aria, 
a  Spanish  lace  of  the  sixteenth  century,  lace  con 
structed  of  human  hair  or  aloe  fibre,  Point 
d'Espagne,  made  by  Jewesses.  Catalogues  of  toys : 
an  engine  that  spreads  smoke  in  the  air,  as  it  runs 
around  a  track  with  a  circumference  of  eight  feet, 
a  doll  that  cries,  Uncle !  Uncle !  a  child's  opium  set. 
Catalogues  of  operas:  Marta  and  Don  Pasquale, 
Der  Freischutz  and  Mefistofele,  Simon  Bocanegra 
and  La  Dolores.  Cook-Books :  Mrs.  Pennell's  The 
Feasts  of  Autolycus,  a  grandiose  treatise  on  the 
noblest  of  the  arts,  wherein  you  may  read  of  the 
amorous  adventures  of  The  Triumphant  Tomato 
and  the  Incomparable  Onion,  Mr.  Finck's  Food  and 
Flavour,  the  gentle  Abraham  Hayward  on  The  Art 
of  Dining,  the  biography  of  Vatel,  the  super-cook 
who  killed  himself  because  the  fish  for  the  king's 
dinner  were  missing,  Mrs.  Glasse's  Cookery,  which 
Dr.  Johnson  boasted  that  he  could  surpass,  and, 
above  all,  Jean  Anthelme  Brillat-Savarin's  Physi 
ologic  du  Gout.  Catalogues  of  harness,  bits  and 

[46] 


-• 

His  Life  and  Works 

saddles.  Catalogues  of  cigarettes:  Dimitrinos  and 
Melachrinos,  Fatimas  and  Sweet  Caporals.  Cata 
logues  of  liqueurs:  Danziger  Goldwasser  and  Creme 
Yvette,  Parfait  Amour,  as  tanagrine  as  the  blood 
in  the  sacred  altar  chalice.  Catalogues  of  paints: 
yellow  ochre  and  gamboge,  burnt  sienna  and  Chinese 
vermilion.  Catalogues  of  hats:  derbies  and  fe 
doras,  straw  and  felt  hats,  top-hats  and  caps,  som 
breros,  tam-o'shanters,  billycocks,  shakos  and  tar 
booshes.  .  .  . 

He  stopped,  breathless  with  excitement,  demand 
ing,  What  do  you  think  of  that? 

I  don't  know  what  to  think.  .  .  . 

I'm  sure  you  don't.  That  isn't  all.  There  are 
dictionaries  and  lexicons,  not  only  German,  English, 
French,  Italian,  Russian,  and  Spanish,  but  also 
Hebrew,  Persian,  Magyar,  Chinese,  Zend,  Sanscrit, 
Hindustani,  Negro  dialects,  French  argot,  Portu 
guese,  American  slang,  and  Pennsylvania  Dutch. 

And  what  are  those  curious  pamphlets? 

He  lifted  a  few  and  read  off  the  titles: 

A  study  of  the  brain  of  the  late  Major  J.  W. 
Powell. 

A  study  of  the  anatomic  relations  of  the  optic 
nerve  to  the  accessory  cavities  of  the  nose. 

On  regeneration  in  the  pigmented  skin  of  the 
frog  and  on  the  character  of  the  chromatophores. 

The  chondrocranium  of  an  embryo  pig. 

Morphology  of  the  parthogenetic  development 
of  amphitrite. 

[47] 


Peter  Whiffle 

Note  on  the  influence  of  castration  on  the 
weight  of  the  brain  and  spinal  cord  in  the  albino 
rat.  , 

There  are,  he  added  solemnly,  many  strange 
words  in  these  pamphlets,  not  readily  to  be  found 
elsewhere. 

Now  Peter  pointed  to  the  pile  of  note-books  on 
the  table. 

These  are  my  note-books.  I  have  ranged  Paris 
for  my  material.  For  days  I  have  walked  in  the 
Passage  des  Panoramas  and  the  Rue  St.  Honore, 
making  lists  of  every  object  in  the  windows.  In 
the  case  of  books  I  have  described  the  bindings. 
I  have  stopped  before  the  shops  of  fruit  vendors, 
antique  dealers,  undertakers,  jewellers,  and  fashion 
ers  of  artificial  flowers.  I  have  spent  so  much  time 
in  the  Galeries  Lafayette  and  the  Bon  Marche 
that  I  have  probably  been  mistaken  for  a  shop 
lifter.  These  books  are  full  of  results.  What  do 
you  think  of  it? 

But  what  is  all  this  for? 

For  my  work,  of  course.     For  my  work. 

I  can't  imagine,  I  began  almost  in  a  whisper,  I 
was  so  astonished,  what  you  do,  what  you  are  going 
to  do.  Are  you  writing  an  encyclopedia? 

No,  my  intention  is  not  to  define  or  describe,  but 
to  enumerate.  Life  is  made  up  of  a  collection  of 
objects,  and  the  mere  citation  of  them  is  sufficient 
to  give  the  reader  a  sense  of  form  and  colour, 
atmosphere  and  style.  And  form,  style,  manner  in 

[48] 


His  Life  and  Works 

literature  are  everything;  subject  is  nothing.  Noth 
ing  whatever,  he  added  impressively,  after  a  pause. 
Do  yofl  know  what  Buff  on  wrote:  Style  is  the  only 
passport  to  posterity.  It  is  not  range  of  infor- 
""mation,  nor  mastery  of  some  little  known  branch  of 
science,  nor  yet  novelty  of  matter,  that  will  insure 
immortality.  Recall  the  great  writers,  Theophile 
Gautier,  Jules  Barbey  d'Aurevilly,  Joris  Huysmans, 
Oscar  Wilde:  they  all  used  this  method,  cata 
logues,  catalogues,  catalogues!  All  great  art  is 
a  matter  of  cataloguing  life,  summing  it  up  in  a 
list  of  objects.  This  is  so  true  that  the  commer 
cial  catalogues  themselves  are  almost  works  of  art. 
Their  only  flaw  is  that  they  pause  to  describe.  If 
it  only  listed  objects,  without  defining  them,  a 
dealer's  catalogue  would  be  as  precious  as  a  book 
by  Gautier. 

During  this  discourse,  George  Moore,  the  orange 
cat,  had  been  wandering  around,  rather  restlessly, 
occasionally  gazing  at  Peter  with  a  semi-quizzical 
expression  and  an  absurd  cock  of  the  ears.  At 
some  point  or  other,  however,  he  had  evidently  ar 
rived  at  the  conclusion  that  this  extra  display  of 
emotion  on  the  part  of  his  human  companion  boded 
him  no  evil  and,  having  satisfied  himself  in  this  re 
gard,  he  leaped  lightly  to  the  mantelshelf,  circled 
his  enormous  bulk  miraculously  around  three  or 
four  times  on  the  limited  space  at  his  disposal,  and 
sank  into  a  profound  slumber  when,  probably,  with 
dreams  of  garrets  full  of  lazy  mice,  his  ears  and  his 

[49] 


Peter  Whiffle 

tail,  which  depended  a  foot  below  the  shelf,  began 
to  twitch. 

Peter  continued  to  talk:  d'Aurevilly  wrote  his 
books  in  different  coloured  inks.  It  was  a  wonder 
ful  idea.  Black  ink  would  never  do  to  describe 
certain  scenes,  certain  objects.  I  can  imagine  an 
entire  book  written  in  purple,  or  green,  or  blood- 
red,  but  the  best  book  would  be  written  in  many 
colours.  Consider,  for  a  moment,  the  distinction 
between  purple  and  violet,  shades  which  are  cous 
ins:  the  one  suggests  the  most  violent  passions  or 
something  royal  or  papal,  the  other  a  nunn'ery  or  a 
widow,  or  a  being  bereft  of  any  capacity  for  pas 
sion. 

Henry  James  should  write  his  books  in  white  ink 
on  white  paper  and,  by  a  system  of  analogy,  you 
can  very  well  see  that  Rider  Haggard  should  write 
his  books  in  white  ink  on  black  paper.  Pale  ideas, 
obviously  expressed.  Gold!  Think  what  you 
could  do  with  gold!  If  silence  is  golden,  surely 
the  periods,  the  commas,  the  semicolons,  and  dashes 
should  be  of  gold.  B'ut  not  only  the  stops  could 
gleam  and  shine;  whole  silent  pages  might  glitter. 
And  blue,  bright  blue ;  what  more  suggestive  colour 
for  the  writer  than  bright  blue? 

Not  only  should  manuscripts  be  written  in  multi 
coloured  inks,  but  they  should  be  written  on  multi 
coloured  papers,  and  then  they  should  be  printed  in 
multi-coloured  inks  on  multi-coloured  papers.  The 

[50] 


v  v 

(  1*4    M      V* 


and  Works 

art  of  book-making,  in  the  sense  that  the  making  of 
a  book  is  part  of  its  authorship,  part  of  its  creation, 
is  not  even  begun. 

The  sculptor  is  not  satisfied  with  moulding  his 
idea  in  clay;  he  gives  it  final  form  in  marble  or 
malachite  or  jade  or  bronze.  Many  an  author, 
however,  having  completed  work  on  his  manuscript, 
is  content  to  allow  his  publisher  to  choose  the  paper, 
the  ink,  the  binding,  the  typography:  all,  obviously, 
part  of  the  author's  task.  It  is  the  publisher's  wish, 
no  doubt,  to  issue  the  book  as  cheaply  as  possible, 
and  to  this  end  he  will  make  as  many  books  after  the 
same  model  as  he  practicably  can.  But  every  book 
should  have  a  different  appearance  from  every  other 
book.  Every  book  should  have  the  aspect  to  which 
its  ideas  give  birth.  The  form  of  the  material 
should  dictate  the  form  of  the  binding.  Who  but  a 
fool,  for  example,  would  print  and  bind  Lavengro 
and  Roderick  Hudson  in  a  similar  manner?  And 
yet  that  is  just  what  publishers  will  do  if  they  are  let 
alone. 

Peter  had  become  so  excited  that  he  had 
awakened  George  Moore,  who  now  descended  from 
the  mantelpiece  and  sought  the  seclusion  of  a  couch 
in  the  corner  where,  after  a  few  abortive  licks  at  his 
left  hind-leg,  and  a  pretence  of  scrubbing  his  ears,  he 
again  settled  into  sleep.  As  for  me,  I  listened,  en 
tranced,  and  as  the  night  before  I  had  discovered 
Paris,  it  seemed  to  me  now  that  I  was  discovering 

[51] 


Peter  Whiffle 

the  secrets  of  the  writer's  craft  and  I  determined  to 
go  forth  in  the  morning  with  a  note-book,  jotting 
down  the  names  of  every  object  I  encountered. 

I  must  have  been  somewhat  bewildered  for  I  re 
peated  a  question  I  had  asked  before: 

Have  you  written  anything  yet? 

Not  yet.  ...  I  am  collecting  my  materials.  It 
may  take  me  considerably  longer  to  collect  what  I 
shall  require  for  a  very  short  book. 

What  is  the  book  to  be  about? 

Van  Vechten,  Van  Vechten,  you  are  not  following 
me!  he  cried,  and  he  again  began  to  walk  up  and 
down  the  little  room.  What  is  the  book  to  be 
about?  Why,  it  is  to  be  about  the  names  of  the 
things  I  have  collected.  It  is  to'be  about  three 
hundred  pages,  he  added  triumphantly.  That  is 
what  it  is  to  be  about,  about  three  hundred  pages, 
three  hundred  pages  of  colour  and  style  and  lists, 
lists  of  objects,  all  jumbled  artfully.  There  isn't  a 
moral,  or  an  idea,  or  a  plot,  or  even  a  character. 
There's  to  be  no  propaganda  or  preaching,  or 
violence,  or  emotion,  or  even  humour.  I  am  not 
trying  to  imitate  Dickens  or  Dostoevsky.  They  did 
not  write  books;  they  wrote  newspapers.  Art 
eliminates  all  such  rubbish.  Art  has  nothing  to  do 
with  ideas.  Art  is  abstract.  When  art  become^ 
concrete  it  is  no  longer  art.  Thank  God,  I  know 
what  I  want  to  do!  Thank  God,  I  haven't  wasted 
my  time  admiring  hack  work!  Thank  God,  I  can 
start  in  at  once  constructing  a  masterpiece !  Why 

[52] 


His  Life  and  Works 

a  list  of  passengers  sailing  on  the  Kronprinz  Wil- 
helm  is  more  nearly  a  work  of  art  than  a  novel  by 
Thomas  Hardy!  What  is  there  in  that?  Any 
body  can  do  it.  Where  is  the  arrangement,  the 
colour,  the  form?  Hardy  merely  photographs  life  ! 

But  aren't  you  trying  to  photograph  still  life? 

Peter's  face  was  almost  purple;  I  thought  he 
would  burst  a  blood-vessel. 

Don't  you  understand  that  perfumes  and  reap 
ing-machines  are  never  to  be  found  together  in  real 
life?  That  is  art,  making  a  pattern,  dragging  un 
familiar  words  and  colours  and  sounds  together  until 
they  form  a  pattern,  a  beautiful  pattern.  An 
Aubusson  carpet  is  art,  and  it  is  assuredly  not  a  pho 
tograph  of  still  life.  .  .  .  Art.  .  .  . 

I  don't  know  how  much  more  of  this  there  was 
but,  when  Peter  finally  stopped  talking,  the  sunlight 
was  streaming  in  through  the  window. 


[531 


Chapter  IV 


It  was  many  days  before  I  saw  Peter  again.  I 
met  other  men  and  women.  I  visited  the  Louvre 
and  at  first  stood  humbly  in  the  Salon  Carre  before 
the  Monna  Lisa  and  in  the  long  corridor  of  the  Ve 
nus  de  Milo;  a  little  later,  I  became  thuriferous 
before  Sandro  Botticelli's  frescoes  from  the  Villa 
Lemmi  and  Watteau's  Pierrot.  I  made  a  pil 
grimage  to  the  Luxembourg  Gallery  and  read 
Huysmans's  evocation  of  the  picture  before  Mo- 
reau's  Salome.  I  sat  in  the  tiny  old  Roman  arena, 
Lutetia's  amphitheatre,  constructed  in  the  second 
or  third  century,  and  conjured  up  visions  of 
lions  and  Christian  virgins.  I  drank  tea  at 
the  Pavilion  d'Armenonville  in  the  Bois  and  I 
bought  silk  handkerchiefs  of  many  colours  at  the 
Galeries  Lafayette.  I  began  to  carry  my  small 
change  in  a  pig-skin  purse  and  I  learned  to  look 
out  for  bad  money.  Every  morning  I  called  for 
mail  at  the  American  Express  Company  in  the  Rue 
Scribe.  I  ate  little  wild  strawberries  with  Creme 
d'Isigny.  I  bought  old  copies  of  TAssiette  au 
Beurre  on  the  quais  and  new  copies  of  Le  Sourire 
at  kiosques.  I  heard  Werther  at  the  Opera-Com- 
ique  and  I  saw  Lina  Cavalieri  in  Thai's  at  the 
Opera.  I  made  journeys  to  Versailles,  Saint  Cloud, 

[54] 


His  Life  and  Works 

and  Fontainebleau.  I  inspected  the  little  hotel  in 
the  Rue  des  Beaux-Arts  where  Oscar  Wilde  died 
and  I  paid  my  respects  to  his  tomb  in  Pere-Lachaise. 
The  fig-leaf  was  missing  from  the  heroic  figure  on 
the  monument.  It  had  been  stolen,  the  cemetery- 
guard  informed  me,  par  une  jeune  miss  anglaise, 
who  desired  a  souvenir.  I  drank  champagne  cock 
tails,  sitting  on  a  stool,  at  the  American  bar  in  the 
Grand  Hotel.  I  drank  whisky  and  soda,  ate  salted 
nuts,  and  talked  with  English  racing  men  at  Henry's 
bar,  under  the  delightful  brown  and  yellow  mural 
decorations,  exploiting  ladies  of  the  1880  period 
with  bangs,  and  dresses  with  bustles,  and'  over-drap- 
ings,  and  buttons  down  the  front.  I  enjoyed  long 
bus  rides  and  I  purchased  plays  in  the  arcades  of 
the  Odeon.  I  went  to  the  races  at  Chantilly.  I 
drank  cocktails  at  Louis's  bar  in  the  Rue  Racine. 
Louis  Doerr,  the  patron,  had  worked  as  a  bar-man 
in  Chicago  and  understood  the  secrets  of  American 
mixed  drinks.  Doubtless,  he  could  have  made  a 
Fireman's  Shirt.  He  divided  his  time  between  his 
little  bar  and  his  atelier,  where  he  gave  boxing  les 
sons  to  the  students  of  the  quarter.  When  he  was 
teaching  the  manly  art,  Madame  Doerr  manipu 
lated  the  shaker.  I  attended  services  at  Les  Han- 
netons  and  Maurice's  Bar  and  I  strolled  through 
the  Musee  de  Cluny,  where  I  bought  postcards  of 
chastity  belts  and  instruments  of  torture.  I  read 
Maupassant  in  the  Pare  Monceau.  I  took  in  the 
naughty  revues  at  Parisiana,  the  Ba-ta-clan,  and 

[55] 


Peter  Whiffle 

the  Folies-Bergere.  I  purchased  many  English  and 
American  novels  in  the  Tauchnitz  edition  and  I 
discovered  a  miniature  shop  in  the  Rue  de  Fur- 
stenberg,  where  elegant  reprints  of  bawdy  eight 
eenth  century  French  romances  might  be  procured. 
I  climbed  to  the  top  of  the  towers  of  Notre-Dame, 
particularly  to  observe  a  chimere  which  was  said  to 
resemble  me,  and  I  ascended  the  Tour  Eiffel  in  an 
elevator.  I  consumed  hors  d'oeuvres  at  the  Bras 
serie  Universelle.  I  attended  a  band  concert  in  the 
Tuileries  Gardens.  I  dined  with  Olive  Fremstad 
at  the  Mercedes  and  Olive  Fremstad  dined  with 
me  at  the  Cafe  d'Harcourt.  I  heard  Salome,  at  the 
Chatelet,  Richard  Strauss  conducting,  with  Emmy 
Destinn  as  the  protagonist  in  a  modest  costume, 
trimmed  with  fur,  which  had  been  designed,  it  was 
announced,  by  the  Emperor  of  Germany.  I  dis 
covered  the  Restaurant  Cou-Cou,  which  I  have 
described  in  The  Merry-Go-Round,  and  I  made  pil 
grimages  to  the  Rat  Mort,  the  Nouvelle  Athenes, 
and  the  Elysee  Montmartre,  sacred  to  the  memory 
of  George  Moore.  They  appeared  to  have  altered 
since  he  confessed  as  a  young  man.  I  stood  on  a 
table  at  the  Bal  Tabarin  and  watched  the  quadrille, 
the  pas  de  quatre,  concluding  with  the  grand  ecart, 
which  was  once  sinister  and  wicked  but  which  has 
come,  through  the  portentous  solemnity  with  which 
tradition  has  invested  it,  to  have  almost  a  reli 
gious  significance.  I  learned  to  drink  Amer  Picon, 
grenadine,  and  white  absinthe.  I  waited  three 

[56] 


His  Life  and  Works 

hours  in  the  street  before  Li  air  de  Pougy's  hotel 
in  the  Rue  de  la  Neva  to  see  that  famous  beauty 
emerge  to  take  her  drive,  ar  j.  I  waited  nearly  as 
long  at  the  stage-door  of  t\e  Opera-Comique  for 
a  glimpse  of  the  exquisite  Regina  Badet.  I  em 
barked  on  one  of  the  joyous  little  Seine  boats  and 
I  went  slumming  in  the  Place  d'ltalie,  La  Villette, 
a  suburb  associated  in  the  memory  with  the  name 
af  Yvette  Guilbert,  and  Belleville.  I  saw  that  very 
funny  farce,  Vous  n'avez  rien  a  declarer  at  the 
Nouveautes.  In  the  Place  des  Vosges,  I  admired 
the  old  brick  houses,  among  the  few  that  Napoleon 
and  the  Baron  Haussmann  spared  in  their  deracina- 
tion  of  Paris.  On  days  when  I  felt  poor,  I  dined 
with  the  cochers  at  some  marchand  de  vins.  On 
days  when  I  felt  rich,  I  dined  with  the  cocottes  at 
the  Cafe  de  Paris.  I  examined  the  collection  of 
impressionist  paintings  at  the  house  of  Monsieur 
Durand-Ruel,  No.  37,  Rue  de  Rome,  and  the  vast 
accumulation  of  unfinished  sketches  for  a  museum 
of  teratology  at  the  house  of  Gustave  Moreau,  No. 
14,  Rue  de  La  Rochefoucauld,  room  after  room 
of  unicorns,  Messalinas,  muses,  magi,  Salomes, 
sphinxes,  argonauts,  centaurs,  mystic  flowers,  chi- 
merae,  Semeles,  hydras,  Magdalens,  griffins,  Circes, 
ticpolongas,  and  crusaders.  I  drank  tea  in  the 
Ceylonese  tea-room  in  the  Rue  Caumartin,  where 
coffee-hued  Orientals  with  combs  in  their  hair  waited 
on  the  tables.  I  gazed  longingly  into  the  show- 
windows  of  the  shops  where  Toledo  cigarette-oases, 

[57] 


u* 

Peter  Whiffle 

Bohemian  garnets,  and  Venetian  glass  goblets  were 
offered  for  sale.  I  bought  a  pair  of  blue  velvet 
workman's  trousers,  a  beret,  and  a  pair  of  canvas 
shoes  at  Au  Pays,  162  Faubourg  St.  Martin.  I 
often  enjoyed  my  chocolate  and  omelet  at  the  Cafe 
de  la  Regence,  where  everybody  plays  chess  or 
checkers  and  has  played  chess  or  checkers  for  a 
century  or  two,  and  where  the  actors  of  the 
Comedie  Frangaise,  which  is  just  across  the  Place, 
frequently,  during  a  rehearsal,  come  in  their  make 
up  for  lunch.  I  learned  the  meaning  of  flic,  gigol- 
ette,  maquereau,  tapette,  and  rigolo.  I  purchased 
a  dirty  silk  scarf  and  a  pair  of  Louis  XV  brass 
candlesticks,  whi-ch  I  still  possess,  in  the  Marche  du 
Temple.  I  tasted  babas  au  rhum,  napoleons,  and 
palmiers.  I  ordered  a  suit,  which  I  never  wore, 
from  a  French  tailor  for  150  francs.  I  bought 
some  Brittany  ware  in  an  old  shop  back  of  Notre- 
Dame.  I  admired  the  fifteenth  century  apocalyptic 
glass  in  the  Sainte-Chapelle  and  the  thirteenth  cen 
tury  glass  in  the  Cathedral  at  Chartres.  I  learned 
that  demi-tasse  is  an  American  word,  that  Sparkling 
Burgundy  is  an  American  drink,  and  that  I  did  not 
like  French  beer.  I  stayed  away  from  the  recep 
tions  at  the  American  embassy.  I  was  devout  in 
Saint  Sulpice,  the  Russian  Church  in  the  Rue  Daru, 
Saint  Germain-des-Pres,  Saint  Eustache,  Sacre-Coeur, 
and  Saint  Jacques,  and  I  attended  a  wedding  at  the 
Madeleine,  which  reminded  me  that  Bel  Ami  had 
been  married  there.  I  passed  pleasant  evenings 

[58] 


His  Life  and  Works 

at  the  Boite  a  Fursy,  on  the  Rue  Pigalle,  and  Les 
Noctambules,  on  the  Rue  Champollion.  I  learned 
to  speak  easily  of  Mayol,  Eve  Lavalliere,  Dranem, 
Ernest  la  Jeunesse,  Colette  Willy,  Max  Dearly, 
Charles-Henry  Hirsch,  Lantelme,  Andre  Gide,  and 
Jeanne  Bloch.  I  saw  Clemenceau,  Edward  VII, 
and  the  King  of  Greece.  I  nibbled  toasted  scones 
at  a  tea-shop  on  the  Rue  de  Rivoli.  I  met  the 
Steins.  In  short,  you  will  observe  that  I  did  every 
thing  that  young  Americans  do  when  they  go  to 
Paris. 

On  a  certain  afternoon,  early  in  June,  I  found  my 
self  sitting  at  a  table  in  the  Cafe  de  la  Paix  with  En- 
glewood  Jennings  and  Frederic  Richards,  two  of  my 
new  friends.  Richards~ls  a  famous  person  today 
and  even  then  he  was  somebody.  He  had  a  habit  of 
sketching,  wherever  he  might  be,  on  a  sheet  of  paper 
at  a  desk  at  the  Hotel  Continental  or  on  a  program 
at  the  theatre.  He  drew  quick  and  telling  likenesses 
in  a  few  lines  of  figures  or  objects  that  pleased  him, 
absent-mindedly  signed  them,  and  then  tossed  them 
aside.  This  habit  of  his  was  so  well-known  that  he 
was  almost  invariably  followed  by  admirers  of  his 
work,  who  snapped  up  his  sketches  as  soon  as  he  had 
disappeared.  I  saw  a  good  collection  of  them, 
drawn  on  the  stationery  of  hotels  from  Hamburg  to 
Taormina,  and  even  on  meat  paper,  go  at  auction  in 
London  a  year  or  so  ago  for  £1,000.  When  I  knew 
him,  Richards  was  a  blond  giant,  careless  of  every- 

[59] 


Peter  Whiffle 

thing  except  his  appearance.  Jennings  was  an 
American  socialist  from  Harvard  who  was  ranging 
Europe  to  interview  Jean  Jaures,  Giovanni  Papini, 
and  Karl  Liebknecht.  He  was  exceedingly  eccentric 
in  his  dress,  had  steel-grey  eyes,  the  longest,  sharpest 
nose  I  have  ever  seen,  and  wore  glasses  framed  in 
tortoise-shell. 

It  had  become  my  custom  to  pass  two  hours  of 
every  afternoon  on  this  busy  corner,  first  ordering 
tea  with  two  brioches,  and  later  a  succession  of 
absinthes,  which  I  drank  with  sugar  and  water.  In 
time  I  learned  to  do  without  the  sugar,  just  as  even 
tually  I  might  have  learned,  in  all  probability,  to  do 
without  the  water,  had  I  not  been  compelled  to  do 
without  the  absinthe.1  I  was  enjoying  my  third 
pernod  while  my  companions  were  dallying  with 
whisky  and  soda.  We  were  gossiping,  and  where 
in  the  world  can  one  gossip  to  better  advantage  than 
on  this  busy  corner,  where  every  passerby  offers  a 
new  opportunity?  But,  occasionally,  the  conversa 
tion  slipped  into  alien  channels. 

How  can  the  artist,  Jennings,  for  instance,  was 
asking,  know  that  he  is  inspired,  when  neither  the 
public  nor  the  critics  recognize  inspiration?  The 
question  is  equally  interesting  asked  backwards.  As 
a  matter  of  fact,  the  artist  is  sometimes  conscious 
that  he  is  doing  one  thing,  while  he  is  acclaimed  and 
appreciated  for  doing  another.  Columbus  did  not 

1  Since  absinthe  has  come  under  the  ban  in  Paris,  I  am  informed 
that  the  correct  form  of  approach  is  to  ask  not  for  a  pernod,  but 
for  un  distingue. 

[60] 


His  Life  and  Works 

set  out  to  discover  America.  Yes,  there  is  often  an 
accidental  quality  in  great  art  and  oftener  still  there 
is  an  accidental  appreciation  of  it.  In  one  sense  art 
is  curiously  bound  up  with  its  own  epoch,  but 
appreciation  or  depreciation  of  its  relation  to 
that  epoch  may  come  in  another  generation.  The 
judgment  of  posterity  may  be  cruel  to  contemporary 
genius.  In  a  few  years  we  may  decide  that  Richard  \* 
Strauss  is  only  another  -Li&xt,anjd  Stravinsky,  an 
other  Rubinstein. 

Inspiration!  Richards  shrugged  his  broad  shep 
herd's  plaid  shoulders.  Inspiration  !  Artists,  crit 
ics,  public,  clever  men,  and  philistines  monotonously 
employ  that  word,  but  it  seems  to  me  that  art  is  cre 
ated  through  memory  out  of  experience,  combined 
with  a  capacity  for  feeling  and  expressing  experi 
ence,  and  depending  on  the  artist's  physical  condi 
tion  at  the  time  when  he  is  at  work. 

Are  you,  I  asked,  one  of  those  who  believes  that 
a  novelist  must  be  unfaithful  to  his  wife  before  he 
can  write  a  fine  novel,  that  a  girl  should  have  an 
amour  with  a  prize-fighter  before  she  can  play 
Juliet,  and  that  a  musician  must  be  a  pederast  be 
fore  he  can  construct  a  great  symphony? 

Richards  laughed. 

No,  he  replied,  I  am  not,  but  that  theory  is  very 
popular.  How  many  times  I  have  heard  it  thun 
dered  forth  !  As  a  matter  of  fact,  there  is  a  certain 
amount  of  truth  in  it,  the  germ,  indeed,  of  a  great 
truth,  for  some  emotional  experience  is  essential  to 


J  TC  P 


Peter  Whiffle 

the  artist,  but  why  particularize?  Each  as  he  may! 

I  know  a  man,  I  went  on,  who  doesn't  believe  that 
experience  has  anything  to  do  with  art  at  all.  He 
thinks  art  is  a  matter  of  arrangement  and  order  and 
form. 

His  art  then,  broke  in  Jennings,  is  epistemologi- 
cal  rather  than  inspirational. 

But  what  does  he  arrange?  queried  Richards. 
Surely  incidents  and  emotions. 

Not  at  all.  He  arranges  objects,  abstractions: 
colours  and  reaping-machines,  perfumes  and  toys. 

Long  ago  I  read  a  book  like  that,  Jennings  went 
on.  It  was  called  Imperial  Purple  and  it  purported 
to'  be  a  history  of  the  Roman  Empire  or  the  Roman 
Emperors.  It  was  a  strangely  amusing  book, 
rather  like  a  clot  of  blood  on  a  daisy  or  a  faded 
pomegranate  flower  in  a  glass  of  buttermilk. 

At  this  period,  I  avidly  collected  labels.  Who 
wrote  it?  I  asked. 

I  don't  remember,  but  your  description  of  your 
friend  recalls  the  book.  What  is  the  name  of  your 
friend's  book? 

He  hasn't  written  a  book  yet. 

I  see. 

He  is  about  to  write  it.  He  knows  what  he 
wants  to  do  and  he  is  collecting  the  materials.  He 
is  arranging  the  form. 

What's  it  about?  Jennings  appeared  to  be  inter 
ested. 

Oh,  it's  about  things.     Whiffle  told  me,  I  suppose 

[62] 


His  Life  and  Works 

he  was  joking,  that  it  would  be  about  three  hundred 
pages. 

Richards  set  down  his  glass  and  in  his  face  I 
recognized  the  portentous  expression  of  a  man 
about  to  be  delivered  of  an  epigram.  It  came:  I 
dislike  pine-apples,  women  with  steatopygous 
figures,  and  men  with  a  gift  for  paronomasia. 

Jennings  ignored  this  ignoble  interruption. 
George  Moore  has  written  somewhere,  he  said, 
that  if  an  author  talks  about  what  he  is  going  to 
write,  usually  he  writes  it,  but  when  he  talks  about 
how  he  is  going  to  write  it,  that  is  the  end  of  the 
matter.  I  wonder  if  this  is  true?  I  have  never 
thought  much  about  it  before  but  I  think  perhaps 
it  is.  I  think  your  friend  will  never  write  his 
book. 

Richards  interrupted  again:  Look  at  that  ma- 
quereau.  That's  the  celebrated  French  actor  who 
went  to  America  after  a  brilliant  career  in  France 
in  the  more  lucrative  of  his  two  professions,  which 
ended  in  a  woman's  suicide.  His  history  was 
well-known  to  the  leading  woman  of  the  company 
with  which  he  was  to  play  in  America,  but  she  had 
never  met  him.  At  the  first  rehearsal,  when  they 
were  introduced,  she  remarked,  Monsieur,  la 
connaissance  est  deja  faite!  Turning  aside,  he 
boasted  to  his  male  companions,  La  gueuse !  Avant 
dix  jours  je  1'aurai  enfilee!  In  a  week  he  had  made 
good  his  threat  and  in  two  weeks  the  poor  woman 
was  without  a  pearl. 

[63] 


Peter  Whiffle 

He  should  meet  Arabella  Munson,  said  Jen 
nings.  She  is  always  willing  to  pay  her  way.  She 
fell  in  love  with  an  Italian  sculptor,  or  at  any  rate 
selected  him  as  a  suitable  father  for  a  prospective 
child.  When  she  became  pregnant,  the  young  man 
actually  fell  ill  with  fear  at  the  thought  that  he 
might  be  compelled  to  support  both  Arabella  and 
the  baby.  He  took  to  his  bed  and  sent  his  mother 
as  an  ambassadress  for  Arabella's  mercy.  Chok 
ing  with  sobs,  the  old  woman  demanded  what 
would  be  required  of  her  son.  My  good  woman, 
replied  Arabella,  dry  your  tears.  I  make  it  a  point 
of  honour  never  to  take  a  penny  from  the  fathers 
of  my  children.  Not  only  do  I  support  the  chil 
dren,  often  I  support  their  fathers  as  well  1 

It  was  sufficiently  warm.  I  lazily  sipped  my 
absinthe.  The  terrasse  was  crowded  and  there 
was  constant  movement;  as  soon  as  a  table  was 
relinquished,  another  group  sat  down  in  the  empty 
chairs.  Ephra  Vogelsang,  a  pretty  American 
singer,  had  just  arrived  with  a  pale  young  blond 
boy,  whom  I  identified  as  Marcel  Moszkowski,  the 
son  of  the  Polish  composer.  Presently,  another 
table  was  taken  by  Vance  Thompson  and  Ernest 
la  Jeunesse,  whose  fat  face  was  sprinkled  with  pim 
ples  and  whose  fat  fingers  were  encased  to  the 
knuckles  in  heavy  oriental  rings.  I  bowed  to  Ephra 
and  to  Vance  Thompson.  On  the  sidewalk  marched 
the  eternal  procession  of  newsboys,  calling  La  Pa 
— trie!  La  Pa — trie!  so  like  a  phrase  at  the 

[64] 


His  Life  and  Works 

beginning  of  the  second  act  of  Carmen,  old  gentle 
men,  nursemaids,  painted  boys,  bankers,  Ameri 
cans,  Germans,  Italians,  South  Americans,  Rouma 
nians,  and  Neo-Kaffirs.  The  carriages,  the  motors, 
the  buses,  formed  a  perfect  maze  on  the  boulevard. 
In  one  of  the  vehicles  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  an 
other  acquaintance. 

That's  Lily  Hampton,  I  noted.  She  is  the 
only  woman  who  ever  made  Toscanini  smile. 
You  must  understand,  to  appreciate  the  story,  that 
she  is  highly  respectable,  the  Mrs.  Kendal  of  the 
opera  stage,  and  the  mother  of  eight  or  nine  chil 
dren.  She  never  was  good  at  languages,  speaks 
them  all  with  a  rotten  accent  and  a  complete  igno 
rance  of  their  idioms.  On  this  occasion,  she  was 
singing  in  Italian  but  she  was  unable  to  converse 
with  the  director  in  his  native  tongue  and,  conse 
quently,  he  was  giving  her  directions  in  French.  He 
could  not,  however,  make  her  understand  what  he 
wanted  her  to  do.  Again  and  again  he  repeated 
his  request.  At  last  she  seemed  to  gather  his  mean 
ing,  that  she  was  to  turn  her  back  to  the  footlights. 
What  she  asked  him,  however,  ran  like  this :  Est-ce 
que  vous  voulez  mon  derriere,  maestro? 

Now  there  was  a  diversion,  an  altercation  at  the 
further  end  of  the  terrasse,  and  a  fluttering  of  feath 
ered,  flowered,  and  smooth-haired  and  bald  heads 
turned  in  that  direction.  In  the  midst  of  this  tur 
bulence,  I  heard  my  name  being  called  and,  looking 
up,  beheld  Peter  Whiffle  waving  from  the  imperiale 

[65] 


Peter  Whiffle 

of  a  bus.  I  beckoned  him  to  descend  and  join  us 
and  this  he  contrived  to  do  after  the  bus  had  trav 
elled  several  hundred  yards  on  its  way  towards  the 
Madeleine  and  I  had  abandoned  the  idea  of  seeing 
him  return.  But  the  interval  gave  me  time  to  in 
form  Richards  and  Jennings  that  this  was  the  young 
author  of  whom  I  had  spoken.  Presently  he  came 
along,  strolling  languidly  down  the  walk.  He 
looked  a  bit  tired,  but  he  was  very  smartly  dressed, 
with  a  gardenia  as  a  boutonniere,  and  he  seemed  to 
vibrate  with  a  feverish  kind  of  jauntiness. 

I  am  glad  to  see  you,  he  cried.  I've  been  meaning 
to  look  you  up.  In  fact  if  I  hadn't  met  you  I 
should  have  looked  you  up  tonight.  I'm  burning 
for  adventures.  What  are  you  doing? 

I  explained  that  I  was  doing  nothing  at  all  and 
introduced  him  to  my  friends.  Jennings  had  an 
engagement.  He  explained  that  he  had  to  talk  at 
some  socialist  meeting,  called  our  waiter,  paid  for 
his  pile  of  saucers,  and  took  his  departure.  Rich 
ards  confessed  that  he  was  burning  too. 

What  shall  we  do?  asked  the  artist. 

There's  plenty  to  do,  announced  Peter,  con 
fidently;  almost  too  much  for  one  night.  But  let's 
hurry  over  to  Serapi's,  before  he  closes  his  shop. 

We  asked  no  questions.  We  paid  our  saucers, 
rose,  and  strolled  along  with  Peter  across  the  Place 
in  front  of  the  Opera  and  down  the  Rue  de  la 
Chaussee-d'Antin  until  we  stood  before  a  tiny  shop, 
the  window  of  which  was  filled  with  bottles  of 

[66] 


His  Life  and  Works 

perfume  and  photographs  of  actresses  and  other 
great  ladies  of  various  worlds  and  countries,  all  in 
scribed  with  flamboyant  encomiums,  relating  to  the 
superior  merits  of  Serapi's  wares  and  testifying  to 
the  superlative  esteem  in  which  Serapi  himself  was 
held. 

Led  by  Peter,  in  the  highest  exuberance  of  nervous 
excitement  but  still,  I  thought,  looking  curiously 
tired,  we  passed  within  the  portal.  We  found  our 
selves  in  a  long  narrow  room,  surrounded  on  two 
sides  by  glass  cases,  in  which,  on  glass  shelves,  were 
arranged  the  products  of  the  perfumer's  art.  At 
the  back,  there  was  a  cashier's  desk  without  an  at 
tendant;  at  the  front,  the  show-window.  In  the 
centre  of  the  room,  the  focus  of  a  group  of  admiring 
women,  stood  a  tawny-skinned  Oriental — perhaps 
concretely  an  Arabian — with  straight  black  hair 
and  soft  black  eyes.  His  physique  was  magnificent 
and  he  wore  a  morning  coat.  Obviously,  this  was 
Serapi  himself. 

Peter,  who  had  now  arrived  at  a  state  in  which  he 
could  with  difficulty  contain  his  highly  wrought  emo 
tion — and  it  was  at  this  very  moment  that  I  began 
to  suspect  him  of  collecting  amusements  along  with 
his  other  objects — ,  in  a  whisper  confirmed  my  con 
jecture.  The  ladies,  delicately  fashioned  Tanagra 
statuettes  in  tulle  and  taffeta  and  chiffon  artifices 
from  the  smartest  shops,  in  hats  on  which  bloomed 
all  the  posies  of  the  season  and  posies  which  went 
beyond  any  which  had  ever  bloomed,  were  much  too 

[67] 


Peter  Whiffle 

attractive  to  be  duchesses,  although  right  here  I  must 
pause  to  protest  that  even  duchesses  sometimes 
have  their  good  points:  the  Duchess  of  Talleyrand 
has  an  ankle  and  the  Duchess  of  Marlborough,  a 
throat.  The  picture,  to  be  recalled  later  when 
Mina  Loy  gave  me  her  lovely  drawing  of  Eros 
being  spoiled  by  women,  was  so  pleasant,  withal 
slightly  ridiculous,  that  Richards  and  I  soon  caught 
the  infection  of  Peter's  scarcely  masked  laughter 
and  our  eyes,  too,  danced.  We  made  some  small 
pretence  of  examining  the  jars  and  bottles  of  Sche 
herazade,  Ambre,  and  Chypre  in  the  cases,  but  only 
a  small  pretence  was  necessary,  as  the  ladies  and 
their  Arab  paid  not  the  slightest  attention  to  us. 

At  length,  following  a  brief  apology,  Serapi  broke 
through  the  ranks  and  disappeared  through  a  door 
way  behind  the  desk  at  the  back  of  the  room.  As  the 
curtains  lifted,  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  plain,  bus 
iness-like  woman,  too  dignified  to  be  a  mere  clerk, 
obviously  the  essential  wife  of  the  man  of  genius, 
He  was  gone  only  a  few  seconds  but  during  those 
seconds  the  chatter  ceased  abruptly.  It  was  ap 
parent  that  the  ladies  had  come  singly.  They  were 
not  acquainted  with  one  another.  As  Serapi  re- 
entered,  they  chirped  again,  peeped  and  twittered 
their  twiddling  tune,  the  words  of  which  were  Ah! 
and  Oh!  In  one  hand,  he  carried  a  small  crystal 
phial  to  which  a  blower  was  attached.  He  ex 
plained  that  the  perfume  was  his  latest  creation,  an 
hermetic  confusion  of  the  dangers  and  ardours  of 

[68] 


His  Life  and  Works 

Eastern  life  and  death,  the  concentrated  essence  of 
the  unperfumed  flowers  of  Africa,  the  odour  of 
their  colours,  he  elaborated,  wild  desert  existence, 
the  mouldering  tombs  of  the  kings  of  Egypt,  the 
decaying  laces  of  a  dozen  Byzantine  odalisques,  a 
fragrant  breath  or  two  from  the  hanging  gardens 
of  Babylon,  and  a  faint  suggestion  of  the  perspi 
ration  of  Istar.  It  is  my  reconstruction,  the  artist 
concluded,  of  the  perfume  which  Ruth  employed  to 
attract  Boaz !  The  recipe  is  an  invention  based  on 
a  few  half-illegible,  lines  which  I  discovered  in  the 
beauty-table  book  of  an  ancient  queen  of  Georgia, 
perhaps  that  very  Thamar  whose  portrait  has  been 
painted  in  seductive  music  by  the  Slav  composer, 
Balakireff. 

The  ladies  gasped.  The  fascinating  Arab  pressed 
the  rubber  bulb  and  blew  the  cloying  vapours  into 
their  faces,  adjuring  them,  at  the  same  time,  to 
think  of  Thebes  or  Haroun-Al-Raschid  or  the  pre- 
Adamite  sultans.  The  room  was  soon  redolent  with 
a  heavy  vicious  odour  which  seemed  to  reach  the 
brain  through  the  olfactory  nerves  and  to  affect  the 
will  like  ether. 

He  is  the  only  man  alive  today,  whispered  Peter, 
not  without  reverence,  who  has  taken  Flaubert's 
phrase  seriously.  He  passes  his  nights  dreaming 
of  larger  flowers  and  stranger  perfumes.  I  believe 
that  he  could  invent  a  new  vice ! 

Serapi  went  the  round  of  the  circle  with  his  mystic 
spray,  and  the  twitterings  of  the  ladies  softened  to 

[69] 


Peter  Whiffle 

ecstatic  coos,  like  the  little  coos  of  dismay  and  de 
light  of  female  cats  who  feel  the  call  of  pleasure, 
when  suddenly  the  phial  fell  from  the  Arab's  un 
clasped  hand,  the  hand  itself  dropped  to  his  side,  the 
brown  skin  became  a  vivid  green,  all  tension  left  his 
body,  and  he  crumbled  into  a  heap  on  the  floor.  The 
ladies  shrieked;  there  was  a  delicious,  susurrous, 
rainbow  swirl  and  billow  of  tulle  and  taffeta  and 
chiffon;  there  was  a  frantic  nodding  and  waving  of 
sweet-peas,  red  roses,  dandelions,  and  magenta  bell- 
flowers  ;  and  eight  pairs  of  white-gloved  arms  circled 
rhythmically  in  the  air.  The  effect  was  worthy  of 
the  Russian  Ballet  and,  had  Fokine  been  present, 
it  would  doubtless  have  been  perpetuated  to  the  sub 
sequent  enjoyment  of  audiences  at  Covent  Garden 
and  the  Paris  Opera. 

Now,  an  assured  and  measured  step  was  heard. 
From  a  room  in  the  rear,  the  calm,  practical  pres 
ence  entered,  bearing  a  glass  of  water.  The  ladies 
moved  a  little  to  one  side  as  she  knelt  before  the 
recumbent  figure  and  sprinkled  the  green  face. 
Serapi  almost  immediately  began  to  manifest  signs 
of  recovery;  his  muscles  began  to  contract  and  his 
face  regained  its  natural  colour.  We  made  our 
way  into  the  open  air  and  the  warm  western  sun 
light  of  the  late  afternoon.  Peter  was  choking 
with  laughter.  I  was  chuckling.  Richards  was  too 
astonished  to  express  himself. 

Life  is  sometimes  artistic,  Peter  was  saying. 
Sometimes,  if  you  give  it  a  chance  and  look  for 

[70] 


His  Life  and  Works 

them,  it  makes  patterns,  beautiful  patterns.  But 
Serapi  excelled  himself  today.  He  has  never  done 
anything  like  this  before.  I  shall  never  go  back 
there  again.  It  would  be  an  anticlimax. 

We  dined  somewhere,  where  I  have  forgotten. 
It  is  practically  the  only  detail  of  that  evening  which 
has  escaped  my  memory.  I  remember  clearly  how 
Richards  sat  listening  in  silent  amazement  to  Peter's 
arguments  and  decisions  on  dreams  and  circum 
stances,  erected  on  bewilderingly  slender  hypotheses. 
He  built  up,  one  after  another,  the  most  gorgeous 
and  fantastic  temples  of  theory;  five  minutes  later 
he  demolished  them  with  a  sledge-hammer  or  a 
feather.  It  was  gay  talk,  fancy  wafted  from  no 
where,  unimportant,  and  vastly  entertaining.  In 
deed,  who  has  ever  talked  like  Peter? 

We  seemed  to  be  in  his  hands.  At  any  rate 
neither  Richards  nor  I  offered  any  suggestions. 
We  waited  to  hear  him  tell  us  what  we  were  to  do. 
About  9  o'clock,  while  we  were  sipping  our  cognac, 
he  informed  us  that  our  next  destination  would  be 
La  Cigale,  a  music  hall  on  the  outer  circle  of  the 
boulevards  in  Montmartre,  where  there  was  to  be 
seen  a  revue  called,  Nue  Cocotte,  of  which  I  still 
preserve  the  poster,  drawn  by  Maes  Lai'a,  depicting 
a  fat  duenna,  fully  dressed,  wearing  a  red  wig  and 
adorned  with  pearls,  and  carrying  a  lorgnette,  a 
more  plausible  female,  nude,  but  for  a  hat,  veil, 
feather  boa,  and  a  pair  of  high  boots  with  yellow 
tops  over  which  protrude  an  inch  or  two  of  blue 

[71] 


Peter  Whiffle 

sock,  and  an  English  comic,  in  a  round  hat,  a  yellow 
checked  suit,  bearing  binoculars,  all  three  astride  a 
remarkably  vivid  red  hobby  horse  whose  feet  are 
planted  in  the;  attitude  t>f  bucking.  The  comic  ' 
grasps  the  bobbed  black  tail  of  the  nag  in  one  hand 
and  the  long  yellow  braid  of  the  female  in  the  other. 

The  cocottes  of  the  period  were  wont  to  wear 
very  large  bell-shaped  hats.  Lily  Elsie,  who  was 
appearing  in  The  Merry  Widow  in  London,  fol 
lowed  this  fashion  and,  as  a  natural  consequence, 
these  head-decorations  were  soon  dubbed,  probably 
by  an  American,  Merry  Widow  hats.  Each  suc 
ceeding  day,  some  girl  would  appear  on  the  boule 
vards  surmounted  by  a  greater  monstrosity  than  had 
been  seen  before.  Discussion  in  regard  to  the  sub 
ject,  editorial  and  epistolary,  raged  at  the  moment 
in  the  Paris  journals. 

Once  we  were  seated  in  our  stalls  on  the  night 
in  question,  it  became  evident  that  the  hat  of  the 
cocotte  in  front  of  Peter  completely  obscured  his 
view  of  the  stage.  He  bent  forward  and  politely 
requested  her  to  remove  it.  She  turned  and  ex 
plained  with  equal  politeness  and  a  most  entrancing 
smile  that  she  could  not  remove  her  hat  without 
removing  her  hair,  surely  an  impossibility,  Mon 
sieur  would  understand.  Monsieur  understood  per 
fectly  but,  under  the  circumstances,  would  Madame 
have  any  objection  if  Monsieur  created  a  dis 
turbance?  Madame,  her  eyes  shining  with  mirth, 

[72] 


His  Life  and  Works 

replied  that  she  would  not  have  the  tiniest  objection, 
that  above  all  else  in  life  she  adored  fracases. 
They  were  of  a  delight  to  her.  At  this  juncture  in 
the  interchange  of  compliments  the  curtain  rose  dis 
closing  a  row  of  females  in  mauve  dresses,  bearing 
baskets  of  pink  roses.  Presently  the  compere 
appeared. 

Chapeau!  cried,  Peter,  in  the  most  stentorian 
voice  I  have  ever  heard  him  assume.  Chapeau ! 

The  spectators  turned  to  look  at  the  valiant 
American.  "Several  heads  nodded  sympathy  and 
approval. 

Chapeau!  Peter  called  again,  pointing  to  the 
adorable  little  lady  in  front  of  him,  who  was  enjoy 
ing  the  attention  she  had  created.  Her  escort, 
on  the  other  hand,  squirmed  a  little. 

The  cry  was  now  taken  up  by  other  unfortunate 
gentlemen  in  the  stalls,  who  were  placed  in  like 
situations  but  who  had  not  had  the  courage  to  begin 
the  battle.  The  din,  indeed,  soon  gained  such  a  de 
gree  of  dynamic  force  that  not  one  word  of  what  was 
being  said  on  the  stage,  not  one  note  of  the  music, 
could  be  distinguished.  Gesticulating  figures  stood 
up  in  every  part  of  the  theatre,  shrieking  and  franti 
cally  waving  canes.  The  compere  advanced  to  the 
footlights  and  appeared  to  be  addressing  us,  much 
in  the  manner  of  an  actor  attempting  to  stem  a  fire 
stampede  in  a  playhouse,  but,  of  course,  he  was  in 
audible.  As  he  stepped  back,  a  sudden  lull  sue- 

[73] 


Peter  Whiffle 

ceeded  to  the  tumult.  Peter  took  advantage  of  this 
happy  quiet  to  interject:  Comme  Melisande,  je  ne 
suis  pas  heureux  id ! 

The  spectators  roared  and  screamed;  the  house 
rocked  with  their  mirth.  Even  the  mimes  were 
amused.  Now,  escorted  by  two  of  his  secretaries 
in  elaborate  coats  decorated  with  much  gold  braid, 
the  manager  of  the  theatre  appeared,  paraded  sol 
emnly  down  the  aisle  to  our  seats  and,  with  a  bow, 
offered  us  a  box,  which  we  accepted  at  once  and  in 
which  we  received  homage  for  the  remainder  of  the 
evening.  At  last  we  could  see  the  stage  and  enjoy 
the  blond  Idette  Bremonval,  the  brunette  Jane 
Merville,  the  comic  pranks  of  Vilbert  and  Prince, 
and  the  Festival  of  the  Deesse  Raison. 

The  performance  concluded,  the  pretty  lady 
who  had  not  removed  her  hat,  commissioned  her  re 
luctant  escort  to  inquire  if  we  would  not  step  out  for 
a  drink  with  them.  The  escort  was  not  ungracious 
but,  obviously,  he  lacked  enthusiasm.  The  lady, 
just  as  obviously,  had  taken  a  great  fancy  to  Peter. 
We  went  to  the  Rat  Mort,  where  we  sat  on  the 
terrasse,  the  lady  gazing  steadily  at  her  new  hero 
and  laughing  immoderately  at  his  every  sally.  Pe 
ter,  however,  quickly  showed  that  he  was  restless 
and  presently  he  rose,  eager  to  seek  new  diversions. 
We  hailed  a  passing  fiacre  and  jumped  in,  while  the 
lady  waved  us  pathetic  adieux.  Her  companion 
seemed  distinctly  relieved  by  our  departure.  Peter 
was  now  in  the  highest  animal  spirits.  All  traces  of 

[74] 


His  Life  and  Works 

fatigue  had  fled  from  his  face.  The  horse  which 
drew  our  fiacre  was  a  poor,  worn-out  brute,  like  so 
many  others  in  Paris,  and  the  cocher,  unlike  so  many 
others  in  Paris,  was  kind-hearted  and  made  no  effort 
to  hasten  his  pace.  We  were  crawling  down  the  hill. 

I  will  race  you!  cried  Peter,  leaping  out  (he  told 
me  afterwards  that  he  had  once  undertaken  a  similar 
exploit  with  a  Bavarian  railway  train) . 

Meet  me  at  the  Olympia  Bar !  he  cried,  dashing 
on  ahead. 

The  cocher  grunted,  shook  his  head,  mumbled  a 
few  unintelligible  words  to  the  horse,  and  we  drove 
on  more  slowly  than  before.  Peter,  indeed,  was 
soon  out  of  sight. 

Ten  minutes  later,  as  we  entered  the  cafe  under 
the  Olympia  Music  Hall,  we  noted  with  some 
surprise  that  the  stools  in  front  of  the  bar,  on  which 
the  cocottes  usually  sat  with  their  feet  on  the  rungs, 
their  trains  dragging  the  floor,  were  empty.  The 
crowd  had  gathered  at  the  other  end  of  the  long  hall 
and  the  centre  of  the  crowd  was  Peter.  He  was 
holding  a  reception,  a  reception  of  cocottes ! 

Ah!  Good  evening,  Mademoiselle  Rolandine  de 
Maupreaux,  he  was  saying  as  he  extended  his 
hand,  I  am  delighted  to  greet  you  here  tonight. 
And  if  this  isn't  dear  little  Mademoiselle  Celes- 
tine  Sainte-Resistance  and  her  charming  friend, 
Mademoiselle  Edmee  Donnez-Moil  And  Camille! 
Camille  la  Grande!  Quelle  chance  de  vous  voir! 
Et  Madame,  votre  mere,  elle  va  bien?  Et 

[75] 


Peter  Whiffle 

Gisele  la  Belle !  Mais  vous  avez  oublie  de  m'ecrire ! 
Do  not,  I  pray  you,  neglect  me  again.  And  the 
charming  Hortense  des  Halles  et  de  chez  Maxim, 
and  the  particularly  adorable  Abelardine  de  Belle 
ville  et  de  la  Place  d'ltalie.  Votre  soeur  va  mi- 
eux,  j'espere.  Then,  drawing  us  in,  Permettez- 
moi,  mesdemoiselles,  de  vous  presenter  mes  amis,  le 
Due  de  Rochester  et  le  Comte  de  Cedar  Rapids. 
Specialement,  mesdemoiselles,  permettez-moi  de  vous 
recommander  le  Comte  de  Cedar  Rapids. 

He  had  never,  of  course,  seen  any  of  them  be 
fore,  but  they  liked  it. 

Richards  grumbled,  It's  bloody  silly,  but  he  was 
laughing  harder  than  I  was. 

I  heard  one  of  the  girls  say,  Le  jeune  Americain 
est  f ou ! 

And  the  antiphony  followed,  Mais  il  est  char- 
mant. 

Later,  another  remarked,  Je  crois  que  je  vais  lui 
demander  de  me  f aire  une  politesse ! 

Overhearing  which,  Peter  rejoined,  Avec  plaisir, 
Mademoiselle.  Quel  genre? 

It  was  all  gay,  irresponsible  and  meaningless, 
perhaps,  but  gay.  We  sat  at  tables  and  drank  and 
smoked  and  spun  more  fantasies  and  quaint  conceits 
until  a  late  hour,  and  that  night  I  learned  that  even 
French  cocottes  will  occasionally  waste  their  time, 
provided  they  are  sufficiently  diverted.  Towards 
four  o'clock  in  the  morning,  however,  I  began  to 
note  a  change  in  Peter's  deportment  and  demeanour. 

[76] 


His  Life  and  Works 

There  were  moments  when  he  sat  silent,  a  little 
aloof,  seemingly  the  prey  of  a  melancholy  regret, 
too  well  aware,  perhaps,  that  the  atmosphere  he 
had  himself  created  would  suck  him  into  its  merry 
hurricane.  I  caught  the  lengthening  shadows  under 
his  eyes  and  the  premonitory  hollows  in  his  cheeks. 
And  this  time,  therefore,  it  was  I  who  suggested 
departure.  Peter  acceded,  but  with  an  air  of  wist- 
fulness  as  if  even  the  effort  of  moving  from  an  un 
comfortable  situation  were  painful  to  him.  Ri'sing, 
we  kissed  our  hands  to  the  band  of  sirens,  who  all 
pressed  forward  like  the  flower  maidens  of  Parsifal 
and  with  equal  success.  Three  of  the  pretty  ladies 
accompanied  us  upstairs  to  the  sidewalk  and  every 
one  of  the  three  kissed  Peter  on  the  mouth,  but  not 
one  of  them  offered  to  kiss  Richards  or  me. 

We  engaged  another  fiacre  and  drove  up  the 
Champs-Elysees.  Now,  it  was  Richards  and  I  who 
had  become  vibrant.  Peter  was  silent  and  old  and 
apart.  The  dawn,  the  beautiful  indigo  dawn  of 
Paris  was  upon  us.  The  cool  trees  were  our  only 
companions  in  the  deserted  streets  until,  near  the 
great  grey  arch,  we  began  to  encounter  the  wagons 
laden  with  vegetables,  bound  for  the  Halles,  wagons 
on  which  carrots,  parsnips,  turnips,  onions,  radishe^ 
and  heads  of  lettuce  were  stacked  in  orderly  and  in 
tricate  patterns.  The  horses,  the  reins  drooping 
loosely  over  their  backs,  familiar  with  the  route, 
marched  slowly  down  the  wide  avenue,  while  the 
drivers  in  their  blue  smocks,  perched  high  on  the 

[77] 


Peter  Whiffle 

fronts  of  their  carts,  slept.  We  drove  past  them  up 
the  Avenue  du  Bois-de-Boulogne  into  the  broadening 
daylight.  On  Peter  Whiffle's  countenance  were 
painted  the  harsh  grey  lines  of  misery  and  despair. 


[781 


Chapter  V 

Notwithstanding  that  Peter  occupied  an  undue 
share  of  my  waking  thoughts  for  the  next  few  days, 
perhaps  a  week  went  by  before  I  found  it  convenient 
to  seek  him  out  again.  One  afternoon,  I  shook  my 
self  free  from  other  entertainments  and  made  my 
way  in  a  taxi-auto  to  the  apartment  in  the  street  near 
the  Rue  Blanche.  The  concierge,  who  was  knitting 
at  a  little  window  adjacent  to  the  door,  informed  me 
that  to  the  best  of  her  belief  Monsieur  Whiffle  was 
at  home.  Venturing  to  operate  the  ascenseur  alone, 
I  was  somewhat  proud  of  my  success  in  reaching  the 
fourth  floor  without  accident.  Standing  before 
Peter's  door,  I  could  hear  the  sound  of  a  woman's 
voice,  singing  Manon's  farewell  to  her  little  table: 

Adieu,  notre  petite  table, 
Qui  nous  reunit  si  souvent! 
Adieu,   notre  petite  table, 
Si  grande  pour  nous  cependant. 

On  tient,  c'est  inimaginable, 
Si  peu  de  place  en  se  serrant. 

The  voice  was  a  somewhat  uncertain  soprano  with  a 
too  persistent  larmoyante  quality.  When  it  ceased, 
I  pressed  the  button  and  the  door  was  opened  by 

[79] 


Peter  Whiffle 

Peter,  in  violet  and  grey  striped  pyjamas  and  Jap 
anese  straw  sandals  with  purple  velvet  straps 
across  his  toes. 

Van  Vechten!  he  cried.  It's  you!  We've  been 
home  all  day.  Clara's  been  singing. 

So  the  voice  was  Clara's.  She  sat,  indeed,  on  the 
long  piano  bench — the  piano  was  an  acquisition  since 
my  last  visit — ,  also  slightly  clad.  She  was  wearing, 
to  be  exact,  a  crepe  de  chine  night-dress.  Her  feet 
were  bare  and  her  hair  was  loose  but,  as  the  day  was 
cool,  she  had  thrown  across  her  shoulders  a  black 
Manila  shawl,  embroidered  with  huge  flowers  of 
Chinese  vermilion  and  magenta. 

How  are  you,  Mr.  Van  Vechten?  she  asked,  ex 
tending  her  hand.  I'll  get  some  tea.  Her  manner, 
I  noted,  was  more  ingratiating  than  it  had  been  the 
day  we  met  at  Martha's. 

Nothing  whatever  was  said  about  the  situation,  if 
there  was  a  situation.  For  my  part,  I  may  say  that  I 
was  entirely  unaccustomed  to  walking  into  an  apart 
ment  at  five  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  and  discovering 
the  host  in  pyjamas,  conversing  intimately  with  a 
lightly-clad  lady,  who,  a  week  earlier,  I  had  every 
reason  to  believe,  had  been  only  a  casual  acquaint 
ance.  The  room,  too,  had  been  altered.  The 
piano,  a  Pleyel  baby  grand,  occupied  a  space  near  the 
window  and  George  Moore  was  sitting  on  it,  finding 
it  an  excellent  point  of  vantage  from  which  to  scan 
the  happenings  in  the  outside  world.  Naturally  his 
back  was  turned  and  he  did  not  get  up,  taking  his  air 

[80] 


</;,    .     -  i 
/F0r£j  - 

of  indifference  from  Peter  and  Clara  or,  perhaps, 
they  had  taken  their  air  from  him.  The  note-books  £ 
had  disappeared,  although  a  pile  of  miscellaneous 
volumes,  on  top  of  which  I  spied  Jean  Lombard's 
1'Agonie,  still  occupied  the  corner.  The  table  was 
covered  with  a  cloth  and  the  remains  of  a  lunch, 
which  had  evidently  consisted  of  veal  kidneys,  toast, 
and  coffee.  I  detected  the  odour  of  Coeur  de 
Jeannette  and  presently  I  descried  a  brule-parfum,  a 
tiny  jade  dragon,  valiantly  functioning.  A  pair  of 
long  white  suede  gloves  and  a  black  hat  with  a  grey 
feather  decorated  the  clock  and  candelabra  on  the 
mantelshelf,  and  a  black  and  white  check  skirt,  a 
pair  of  black  silk  stockings,  and  low  patent-leather 
lady's  shoes  in  trees  were  also  to  be  seen,  lying  over  a 
chair  and  on  the  floor. 

Peter,  however,  attempted  no  explanations.  In 
deed,  none  was  required,  except  perhaps  for  a  cate 
chumen.  He  began  to  talk  immediately,  in  an  easy 
conversational  tone,  evidently  trying  to  cover  my 
confusion.  His  manner  reminded  me  that  an  intelli 
gent  Negro,  who  had  written  many  books  and  met 
many  people,  had  once  told  me  that  he  was  always 
obliged  to  spend  at  least  ten  minutes  putting  new 
white  acquaintances  at  their  ease,  making  them  feel 
that  it  was  unnecessary  for  them  to  put  him  at  his 
ease.  It^is  a  curious  fact  that  the  man  in  an  em 
barrassing  situation  is  seldom  as  embarrassed  as  the 
man  who  breaks  in  upon  it. 

Peter  asked  many  questions  about  what  I  had  been 


^l^,    *    fcrf 

\  ,         A 


Peter  Whiffle 

doing,  inquired  about  Richards,  whom  he  avowed 
he  liked — they  had  not,  I  afterwards  recalled, 
exchanged  more  than  three  words — ,  and  concluded 
with  a  sort  of  rhapsody  on  Clara's  voice,  which  he 
pronounced  magnificently  suited  to  the  new  music. 

Presently  Clara  herself  came  back  into  the  room, 
bearing  a  tray  with  a  pot  of  tea,  toast  and  petits 
fours.  She  placed  her  burden  on  the  piano  bench 
while  she  quickly  swept  the  debris  from  the  table. 
Then  she  transferred  the  tea  service  to  the  unoccu 
pied  space  and  we  drew  up  our  chairs. 

Where  have  you  been?  asked  Clara.  Martha 
says  she  hasn't  seen  you.  Will  you  have  one  lump 
or  two  ? 

Two.  You  know,  when  one  comes  to  Paris  for 
the  first  time — 

I  took  Van  Vechten  about  a  bit  the  other  night, 
Peter  broke  in.  I  think  I  forgot  to  tell  you. 
We've  had  so  much  to  talk  about.  .  .  . 

Clara  interrupted  the  shadow  of  an  anserine 
smile  to  nibble  a  pink  cake.  Her  legs  protruded  at 
an  odd  angle  and  I  caught  myself  looking  at  her 
thick  ankles. 

You're  looking  at  my  legs!  she  exclaimed.  You 
mustn't  do  that !  I  have  very  ugly  legs. 

But  they're  very  sympathetic!  cried  Peter. 
Don't  you  think  they're  sympathetic,  Van  Vechten? 

I  assured  him  that  I  did  and  we  went  on  talking, 
a  little  constrainedly,  I  thought,  about  nothing  in 
particular,  until,  at  length,  Peter  asked  Clara  if  she 

[82] 


His  Life  and  Works 

would  sing  again.  Without  waiting  for  a  reply,  he 
seated  himself  before  the  piano  and  began  the  pre 
lude  to  Manon's  air  in  the  Cours  la  Reine  scene  and 
Ckra,  without  rising,  sang: 

Je  marche  sur  tous  les  chemins 
Aussi   bien   qu'une   souveraine; 
On  s'incline,  on  baise  mes  mains, 
Car  par  la  beaute  je  suis  reine! 

Now  her  voice  had  lost  the  larmoyante  quality, 
which  evidently  was  a  part  of  her  bag  of  tricks  for 
more  emotional  song,  but  it  had  acquired  a  hard  bril 
liancy  which  was  even  more  disagreeable  to  the  ear. 
She  had  also,  I  remarked,  no  great  regard  for  the 
pitch  and  little,  if  any,  expressiveness.  Neverthe 
less,  Peter  wheeled  around,  after  an  accompaniment 
which  was  even  less  sympathetic  to  me  than  Clara's 
legs,  to  exclaim: 

Superb!     I  want  her  to  study  Isolde. 

Peter  doesn't  understand,  explained  Clara,  that 
you  must  begin  with  the  lighter  parts.  If  I  sang 
Isolde  now  I  would  have  no  voice  in  five  years. 
Isolde  will  come  later.  I  can  sing  Isolde  after  I 
have  lost  my  voice.  My  first  roles  will  be  Manon, 
Violetta,  and  Juliette.  It's  old  stuff,  perhaps,  but  it 
doesn't  injure  the  voice,  and  the  voice  is  my  first  con 
sideration.  Now  I  wouldn't  sing  Salome  if  they 
offered  me  500  francs  a  night. 

Did  you  hear  about  Adelina  Patti?  asked  Peter. 
She  is  a  good  Catholic.  She  went  to  a  performance 

[83] 


Peter  Whiffle 

of  Salome  at  the  Chatelet  and  while  Destinn  was  os 
culating  the  head  of  Jochanaan  she  dropped  to  her 
knees  in  her  loge  and  began  to  pray ! 

I  don't  blame  her,  said  Clara.  It's  rotten  and 
immoral,  Salome — not  the  play,  I  don't  mean  that, 
but  the  music,  rotten,  immoral  music,  ruinous  to  the 
voice.  Patti  was  probably  praying  God  for  another 
Rossini.  Strauss's  music  will  steal  ten  years  from 
Destinn's  career. 

Peter  eyed  her  with  adoration.  After  a  few 
more  remarks,  I  made  my  departure,  both  of  them 
urging  me  to  come  again  at  any  time.  Peter  had 
not  said  one  word  about  his  writing,  I  reflected,  as  I 
walked  down  the  stairs,  and  he  had  been  very  exag 
gerated  in  his  praise  of  Clara's  meagre  talents. 

And  I  did  not  go  back.  I  did  not  see  Peter  again 
that  summer;  I  did  not  see  him  again,  in  fact,  for 
nearly  six  years.  My  further  adventures,  which  in 
cluded  a  trip  to  London,  to  Munich,  where  I  at 
tended  the  Wagner  and  Mozart  festivals,  to  Hol 
land  and  Belgium,  were  sufficiently  diverting  but,  as 
they  have  no  bearing  on  Peter's  history,  I  shall  not 
relate  them  now.  They  will  fall  into  their  proper 
chapters  in  my  autobiography,  which  Alfred  A. 
Knopf  will  publish  in  two  volumes  in  the  fall  of 
1936. 

Although  I  did  not  learn  the  facts  I  am  about  to 
catalogue  until  a  much  later  date — some  of  them, 
indeed,  not  until  after  Peter's  death — this  seems  as 
good  a  place  as  any  to  tell  what  I  know  of  his  early 

[84] 


His  Life  and  Works 

life.  He  was  born  June  5,  1885,  in  Toledo,  Ohio. 
He  never  told  his  age  to  any  one  and  I  only  discov 
ered  it  after  his  death.  If  an  inquiry  were  made 
concerning  it,  it  was  his  custom  to  counter  with  an 
other  question:  How  old  do  you  think  I  am?  and 
then  to  add  one  year  to  the  reply,  thus  insuring 
credence.  So  I  have  heard  him  give  himself  ages 
varying  from  eighteen  to  forty-five,  but  he  was  only 
thirty-four  when  he  died  in  1919. 

His  father  was  cashier  in  a  bank,  a  straight,  se 
rious,  plain  sort  of  man,  of  the  kind  that  is  a  prop  to 
a  small  town,  looked  up  to  and  respected,  asked 
whether  an  election  will  have  an  effect  on  stock  val 
ues,  and  whether  it  is  better  to  illuminate  one's 
house  with  gas  or  electricity.  His  mother  was  a 
small  woman  with  a  pleasa-nt  face  and  red  hair 
which  she  parted  in  the  centre.  Kindliness  she  oc 
casionally  carried  almost  to  the  point  of  silliness. 
She  was  somewhat  garrulous,  too,  but  she  was  well- 
read,  not  at  all  ignorant,  and  at  surprising  moments 
gave  evidence  of  possessing  a  small  stock  of  common 
sense.  I  think  Peter  inherited  a  good  deal  of  his 
quality  from  his  mother,  who  was  a  Fotheringay  of 
West  Chester,  Pennsylvania.  I  met  her  for  the 
first  time  soon  after  her  husband's  death.  She  was 
wearing,  in  addition  to  a  suitable  mourning  garment, 
five  chains  of  Chinese  beads  and  seemed  moderately 
depressed. 

Peter's  resemblance  to  Buridan's  donkey  (it  will 
be  remembered  that  the  poor  beast  wavered  between 

[85] 


Peter  Whiffle 

the  hay  and  the  water  until  he  starved  to  death)  be 
gan  with  his  very  birth.  He  could  not,  indeed,  de 
cide  whether  he  would  be  born  or  not.  The  family 
physician,  by  the  aid  of  science  and  the  knife,  decided 
the  matter  for  him.  Soon  thereafter  he  often  hes 
itated  between  the  milk-bottle  and  the  breast. 
There  was,  doubtless,  a  certain  element  of  restless 
ness  and  curiosity  connected  with  this  vacillation,  a 
desire  to  miss  nothing  in  life.  It  is  possible  that  the 
root  of  this  aggressive  instinct  might  have  been  de 
racinated  but  Mrs.  Whiffle,  with  a  foresense  of  the 
decrees  of  the  most  modern  motherhood,  held  no 
brief  for  suppressed  desires.  Baby  Peter  was  al 
ways  permitted  to  choose,  at  least  nearly  always,  and 
so,  as  he  grew  older,  his  mania  developed  accord 
ingly.  A  decision  actually  caused  him  physical  pain, 
often  made  him  definitely  ill.  He  would  pause  in 
terminably  before  two  toys  in  a  shop,  or  at  any  rate 
until  his  mother  bought  both  of  them  for  him.  He 
could  never  decide  whether  to  go  in  or  go  out, 
whether  to  play  horse  or  to  cut  out  pictures.  His 
mother  has  told  me  that  on  one  occasion  she  discov 
ered  this  precocious  child  (at  the  age  of  twelve)  in 
the  library  of  a  Toledo  bibliophile  (she  was  in  the 
house  as  a  luncheon  guest)  with  the  Sonnets  of  Pie- 
tro  Aretino  in  one  hand  and  Fanny  Hill  in  the  other. 
He  could  not  make  up  his  mind  from  which  he  would 
derive  the  most  pleasure.  In  this  instance,  his  ma 
ternal  parent  intervened  and  took  both  books  away 
from  him. 

[86] 


V  Q  if? 

His  Life  and  Works 


Otherwise,  aside  from  various  slight  illnesses, 
his  childhood  was  singularly  devoid  of  incident, 
Because  he  hummed  bits  of  tune  while  at  play,  his 
mother  decided  that  he  must  be  musical  and  sent 
him  to  an  instructor  of  the  piano.  The  first  six 
months  were  drudgery  for  Peter  but  as  soon  as  he 
began  to  read  music  easily  the  skies  cleared  for  him. 
He  never  became  a  great  player  but  he  played  easily 
and  well,  much  better  than  I  imagined  after  hearing 
his  rather  bombastic  accompaniments  to  Clara's 
singing.  Of  books  he  was  an  omnivorous  reader. 
He  read  every  volume  —  some  of  them  two  or  three 
times  —  in  the  family  library,  which  included,  of 
course,  the  works  of  Dickens,  Thackeray,  Wilkie 
Collins,  Charles  Reade,  and  Sir  Walter  Scott,  Emer 
son's  Essays,  Bulwer-Lytton,  Owen  Meredith's  Lu- 
cile,  that  long  narrative  poem  called  Nothing  to 
Wear,  Artemus  Ward's  Panorama,  Washington 
Irving,  Longfellow,  Whittier,  Thoreau,  Lowell, 
and  Hawthorne,  and  among  the  moderns,  Mark 
Twain,  William  Dean  Howells,  F.  Hopkinson 
Smith,  F.  Marion  Crawford,  Richard  Harding 
Davis,  George  W.  Cable,  Frank  Stockton,  H.  C. 
Bunner,  and  Thomas  Nelson  Page.  Peter  once 
told  me  that  his  favourite  books  when  he  was  four 
teen  or  fifteen  years  old  were  Sarah  Grand's  The 
Heavenly  Twins  and  H.  B.  Fuller's  The  Chevalier 
of  Pensieri-Vani.  The  latter  made  a  remarkable 
impression  on  him,  when  he  first  discovered  it  at  the 
age  of  fifteen,  not  that  he  fully  appreciated  its  ironic 

[87] 


Peter  Whiffle 

raillery  but  it  seemed  to  point  out  the  pleasure  to 
be  apprehended  from  pleasant  places.  He  named 
a  cat  of  the  period,  a  regal  yellow  short-haired  torn, 
after  the  Prorege  of  Arcopia.  The  house  library 
exhausted,  the  public  library  offered  further  oppor 
tunities  for  browsing  and  it  was  there  that  he  made 
the  acquaintance  of  Gautier,  in  translation,  of 
course.  He  also  found  it  possible  to  procure — 
though  not  at  the  public  library — and  he  devoured 
with  avidity — he  has  asserted  that  they  had  an 
extraordinary  effect  in  awakening  his  imagination 
— Nick  Carter,  Bertha  M.  Clay,  and  Golden  Days. 
For  a  period  of  four  or  five  years,  in  spite  of 
all  protests,  although  he  had  never  heard  of  the 
vegetarians,  he  subsisted  entirely  on  a  diet  of 
cookies  soaked  in  hot  milk.  He  had  a  curious  in 
herent  dislike  for  spinach  and  it  was  characteristic  of 
his  father  that  he  ordered  the  dish  to  appear 
on  the  table  every  day  until  the  boy  tasted  a 
morsel.  In  after  life,  Peter  could  never  even  look 
at  a  dish  of  spinach.  He  cared  nothing  at  all  for 
outdoor  sports.  Games  of  any  kind,  card  or  oscula- 
tory,  he  considered  nuisances.  At  a  party,  while  the 
other  children  were  engaged  in  the  pleasing  pastime 
of  post  office,  he  was  usually  to  be  found  in  a  corner, 
reading  some  book.  Th*  companionship  of  boys 
and  girls  of  his  own  age  meant  very  little  to  him. 
He  liked  to  talk  to  older  people  and  found  special 
pleasure  in  the  company  of  the  Reverend  Horatio 
Wallace,  a  clergyman  of  the  Dutch  Reformed 

[88] 


His  Life  and  Works 

Church,  who  had  visited  New  York.  This  reverend 
doctor  was  violently  opposed  to  art  museums,  nov 
els,  and  symphony  orchestras,  but  he  talked  about 
them  and  he  was  the  only  person  Peter  knew  in 
Toledo  who  did.  He  railed  against  the  sins  of 
New  York  and  the  vices  of  Paris  but,  also,  he  de 
scribed  them. 

In  the  matter  of  a  university  education,  his  mother 
took  a  high  hand,  precluding  all  discussion  and  inde 
cision  by  sending  him  willy-nilly  to  Williams.  Her 
brother  had  been  a  Williams  man  and  she  prayed 
that  Peter  might  like  to  be  one  too.  The  experi 
ment  was  not  unsuccessful.  The  charm  in  Peter's 
nature  began  to  expand  at  college  and  he  even  made 
a  few  friends,  the  names  of  most  of  which  he  could 
no  longer  remember,  when  he  spoke  to  me  of  his  col 
lege  days  some  years  afterwards.  He  realized  that 
the  reason  he  had  made  so  few  in  Toledo  was  that 
the  people  of  Toledo  were  not  his  kind  of  people. 
They  lived  in  a  world  which  did  not  exist  for  him. 
They  lived  in  the  world  of  Toledo  while  he  lived  in 
the  world  of  books.  At  college,  he  began  to  take 
an  interest  in  personalities;  he  began  to  take  an  in 
terest  in  life  itself.  He  studied  French — it  was  the 
only  course  he  thoroughly  enjoyed — and  he  began 
to  read  Gautier  in  the  original.  Then,  at  the  in 
stigation  of  a  particularly  intelligent  professor,  he 
passed  on  to  Barbey  d'Aurevilly,  to  Huysmans,  to 
Laforgue,  and  to  Mallarme. 

His  holidays  were  always  a  torture  for  the  boy. 

[89] 


Peter  Whiffle 

Should  he  accept  one  of  several  invitations  to  visit 
his  lad  friends  or  should  he  go  home?  One  Easter 
vacation,  Monkey  Rollins  had  asked  him  to  visit 
him  in  Providence  while  Teddy  Quartermouse  had 
bidden  him  to  enjoy  himself  in  New  York.  Peter 
pondered.  He  liked  Monkey's  sisters  but  a  week 
in  Providence  meant,  he  knew,  dancing,  bridge,  and 
golf,  all  of  which  he  hated.  Teddy  was  not  as 
companionable  as  Monkey  and  he  had  no  sisters, 
but  in  New  York  both  indoor  and  outdoor  sports 
could  be  avoided.  Peter  helplessly  examined  both 
sides  of  the  shield  until  Monkey  settled  the  question 
by  coming  after  him,  helping  him  pack,  and  carry 
ing  him  triumphantly  to  the  railway  station. 

No  sooner,  however,  had  he  arrived  in  Providence 
than  he  knew  that  it  would  be  impossible  for  him  to 
remain  there.  He  did  not  find  Monkey's  mother 
very  agreeable,  rather  she  was  too  agreeable.  The 
vegetables  were  cooked  in  milk — the  Rollins  family 
had  previously  lived  in  Missouri.  This,  of  course, 
was  not  to  be  borne.  Worst  of  all,  there  was  a  par 
rot,  a  great,  shrieking,  feathered  beast,  with  kopro- 
lagniac  tastes.  Nevertheless,  he  exerted  himself  at 
dinner,  giving  a  lengthy  and  apocryphal  description 
to  Mrs.  Rollins  of  his  performance  of  a  concerto  for 
kettle-drum  with  the  college  band,  and  doubtless 
made  a  distinctly  favourable  impression  on  the  entire 
family.  Even  the  parrot  volunteered :  Hurrah  for 
you,  kid,  you're  some  guy!  as  the  procession  trooped 
into  the  library,  which  one  of  the  girls  referred  to 

[90] 


His  Life  and  Works 

as  "the  carnegie,"  for  coffee.  While  Caruso  nego 
tiated  Celeste  Aida  on  the  phonograph,  Peter,  after 
whispering  an  appropriate  excuse  to  Monkey,  con 
trived  to  slip  upstairs.  He  looked  about  on  the 
landing  in  the  upper  hallway  for  a  telephone  but, 
naturally,  it  wasn't  there.  Then  he  reconnoitred 
and  discovered  that  by  climbing  out  over  the  porch 
and  making  a  ten  foot  jump  he  would  land  very 
neatly  in  a  bed  of  crocuses.  This  he  did  and, 
scrambling  to  his  feet,  made  straight  for  an  apoth 
ecary's  coloured  lights,  which  he  saw  in  the  distance. 
The  sequel  is  simple.  In  fifteen  minutes,  by  way  of 
the  kitchen,  he  was  back  in  the  library;  in  thirty  min 
utes,  he  had  the  family  in  roars  of  laughter;  in  forty- 
five  minutes,  Papa  Rollins  began  to  yawn  and 
guessed  it  was  bed-time;  Mama  Rollins  called  in 
the  maid  to  cover  the  parrot  and  arrange  the  fire. 
Monkey  said  he  thought  he  would  play  a  game  of 
something  or  other  with  Peter.  The  girls  giggled. 
In  exactly  an  hour,  there  was  a  ring  at  the  door 
and  the  maid  reappeared  in  the  library,  with  a 
yellow  envelope  addressed  to  Peter.  He  hastily 
tore  it  open,  trying  to  look  portentous.  Every 
body  else  did  look  portentous.  Peter  handed 
the  telegram  to  Monkey,  who  read  it  aloud: 
Your  mother  would  like  to  shake  your  hand  before 
she  takes  the  ether  tomorrow  morning.  The  mes 
sage  was  dated  from  New  York  and  the  signature 
was  that  of  a  famous  surgeon.  Mrs.  Rollins  was 
the  first  to  break  a  moment  of  appalling  silence: 

[91] 


Peter  Whiffle 

There's  a  train  in  fifteen  minutes.  It's  the  last. 
Quick,  Monkey,  the  motor!  Peter  cried,  Send  my 
things  to  the  Manhattan,  as  he  jerked  on  his  coat. 
He  caught  the  train  and  some  hours  later  he  and 
Teddy  Quartermouse  might  have  been  observed 
amusing  themselves  with  highballs  and  a  couple  of 
girls  at  Rector's. 

In  time,  college  days  passed.  Peter  confessed  to 
me  that  the  last  two  years  were  an  awful  strain  but 
he  stuck  them  out,  chiefly  because  he  could  not  think 
of  anything  else  he  wanted  to  do.  His  real  mental 
agony  began  with  his  release.  He  dreaded  life  and 
most  of  all  he  dreaded  work.  His  father,  although 
well-to-do,  had  a  sharply  defined  notion  that  a  boy 
who  would  not  work  never  amounted  to  anything. 
His  peculiar  nature  sometimes  asserted  itself  in  lu 
dicrous  and  fantastically  exaggerated  demonstra 
tions  of  this  theory.  Once,  for  example,  during  a 
summer  vacation  spent  in  the  country,  he  insisted 
that  Peter  skin  a  pig.  You  have  an  opportunity  to 
learn  now  and  you  never  can  tell  when  you  may 
have  to  skin  another  pig.  When  the  time  comes 
you  will  be  prepared.  His  father,  Peter  returned 
from  college  discovered,  was  in  no  mood  to  tolerate 
vacillation  or  dawdling.  But  Peter  seemed  to  feel 
no  urge  of  any  kind.  I  not  only  did  not  want  to 
do  anything,  he  explained,  there  was  nothing  that 
I  wanted  to  do.  Here  his  father,  with  whom 
the  boy  had  never  been  particularly  sympathetic 
(motive  of  the  CEdipus  complex  by  the  flutes  in 

[92] 


His  Life  and  Works 

the  orchestra),  asserted  his  authority  and  put 
him  in  the  bank.  Peter  loathed  the  bank.  He 
hated  his  work,  cutting  open  envelopes  early  in 
the  morning,  sorting  out  bills  for  collection,  and 
then,  on  his  bicycle,  making  the  collections.  In  the 
afternoon,  an  endless  task  at  the  adding  machine 
seemed  Dantesque  and,  at  night,  the  sealing  of  en 
velopes  was  even  more  tiresome  than  opening  them 
in  the  morning.  There  was,  however,  one  mitiga 
ting  circumstance  in  connection  with  the  last  job  of 
the  day,  the  pleasure  afforded  by  the  rich  odour  of 
the  hot  sealing-wax.  His  pay  was  $9  a  week ;  he  has 
told  me  that  probably  he  was  not  worth  it !  Fortun 
ately  he  lived  at  home  and  was  not  asked  to  pay 
board.  He  bought  books  with  the  $9  and  "silly 
things."  When  I  asked  him  what  he  meant  by  silly 
things,  he  replied :  O  !  Rookwood  pottery,  and  alli 
gators,  and  tulip  bulbs:  I  don't  remember,  things 
like  that!  One  day,  he  promised  his  father  that  he 
would  give  up  smoking  if  that  one  would  present 
him  with  a  gold  cigarette-case ! 

There  came  a  morning  when  he  could  not  make  up 
his  mind  to  get  up.  His  mother  called  him  several 
times  in  vain.  He  arrived  at  the  bank  half  an  hour 
late  and  was  reprimanded.  His  father  spoke  about 
his  tardiness  at  lunch.  At  this  period  he  was  in 
clined  to  be  sulky.  He  started  off  on  his  bicycle  in 
the  afternoon  but  he  did  not  go  to  the  bank.  He 
rode  along  by  the  river,  stopping  at  a  low  saloon  in 
the  outlying  districts,  where  the  workmen  of  some 

[93] 


Peter  Whiffle 

factory  were  wont  to  congregate  in  the  evening, 
and  drank  a  great  many  glasses  of  beer.  Cheered 
somewhat  thereby,  the  thought  of  facing  his  father 
no  longer  exasperated  him.  The  big  scene  took 
place  before  dinner.  Had  it  not  been  for  the  beer, 
he  would  have  been  obliged  to  act  his  part  on  an 
empty  stomach. 

Are  you  no  good  at  all?  Thus  his  father's  bari 
tone  aria  began.  Are  you  worthless?  I'm  not 
going  to  support  you.  Suppose  you  had  to  pay  your 
own  board.  I  can't  keep  a  son  of  mine  in  the  bank 
because  he  is  a  son  of  mine  unless  he  does  some  work. 
Certainly  not.  How  long  are  you  going  to  dawdle? 
What  are  you  going  to  do?  Et  cetera,  et  cetera, 
with  a  magnificent  cadenza  and  a  high  E  to  top  off 
with.  Sustained  by  the  beer,  Peter  reported  to  me 
that  he  rather  enjoyed  the  tune.  He  said  nothing. 
Dinner  was  eaten  in  complete  silence  and  then  the 
paternal  parent  went  to  bed,  a  discouraged  and 
broken  man.  He  seemed  senescent,  although  he  was 
not  yet  fifty.  After  dinner,  Peter's  mother  spoke  to 
him  more  gently  but  she  also  was  full  of  warning  and 
gloomy  foreboding:  What  is  it  you  want  to  do,  my 
son?  ...  I  don't  know.  I'm  not  sure  that  I  want 
to  do  anything.  .  .  .  But  you  must  do  something. 
You  wouldn't  be  manly  if  you  didn't  do  something. 
It  is  manly  to  work.  A  day  will  come  when  my  son 
will  want  to  marry  and  then  he  will  need  money  to 
support  his  dear  wife.  Etc.  Etc.  Peter  reported 

[94] 


His  Life  and  Works 

to  me  that  he  seemed  to  have  heard  this  music  be 
fore.  He  had  not  yet  read  The  Way  of  All  Flesh; 
I  doubt  if  it  were  published  at  this  time,  but  Ernest 
•Pontifex  would  have  been  a  sympathetic  figure  to 
him.  Peter  knew  the  meaning  of  the  word  cliche, 
although  the  sound  and1  the  spelling  of  it  were  yet 
strange  to  him. 

When  he  got  to  his  room  certain  words  his 
mother  had  spoken  rang  in  his  ears!  Why,  he  asked 
himself,  should  men  support  women?  Art  is  the 
only  attraction  in  life  and  women  never  do  good 
work  in  art.  They  are  useless  in  the  world  aside 
from  their  functions  of  sex  and  propagation.  Why 
should  they  not  work  so  that  the  males  could  be  free 
to  think  and  dream?  Then  it  occurred  to  him  that 
he  would  be  furious  if  any  woman  supported  his 
father;  that  could  not  be  borne,  to  have  his  father 
at  home  all  day  while  his  mother  was  away  at  work! 

Nevertheless,  he  went  to  sleep  quite  happy,  he 
has  assured  me,  and  slept  soundly  through  the  night, 
although  he  dreamed  of  a  pair  of  alligators,  one  of 
which  was  pulling  at  his  head  and  the  other  at  his 
feet,  while  a  man  with  an  ax  rained  blows  on  his 
stomach.  In  the  morning  his  affairs  seemed  to  be 
in  a  desperate  state.  He  could  not  bear  the  idea 
of  getting  up  and  going  to  the  bank  and  yet  there 
was  nothing  else  he  wanted  to  do.  Of  one  thing 
only  he  was  sure:  he  did  not  want  to  support  him 
self.  He  did  not,  so  far  as  he  was  able  to  make 

[95] 


Peter  Whiffle 

out,  want  to  do  anything!  He  wanted  his  family 
to  stop  bothering  him.  Was  no  provision  made 
in  this  world  for  such  as  he? 

Certainly,  no  provision  was  made  for  him  in  To 
ledo,  Ohio.  The  word  temperament  was  still  un 
discovered  there.  His  negative  kind  of  desire  was 
alien  to  American  sympathy.  Of  so  much,  he  was 
aware.  Adding  machines  and  collections  awaited 
him.  He  went  to  the  bank  where  the  paying  teller 
again  reprimanded  him.  So  did  one  of  the  clerks. 
So  did  one  of  the  directors,  a  friend  of  his  father. 
He  staggered  through  another  day,  which  he  helped 
along  a  little  by  returning  at  noon  with  all  his  notes 
uncollected.  Nobody  wants  to  pay  to-day,  he  ex 
plained.  .  .  .  But  it's  your  business  to  make  them 
pay.  .  .  .  There  was  cold  ham,  cold  slaw,  and  rice 
pudding  for  lunch.  His  mother  had  been  crying. 
His  father  was  stern. 

During  the  rice  pudding,  he  made  a  resolution, 
which  he  kept.  From  that  day  on  he  worked  as  he 
had  never  worked  before.  Everybody  in  the  bank 
was  astonished.  His  father  was  delighted.  His 
mother  said,  I  told  you  so.  I  know  my  son.  .  .  . 
He  stopped  buying  books  and  silly  things  and,  when 
he  had  saved  enough  money,  he  took  a  train  to  New 
York  without  bidding  the  bank  officials  or  his  family 
good-bye.  Once  there,  his  resolution  again  failed 
him.  He  had  no  desires,  or  if  he  had,  one  counter 
acted  another.  His  money  was  almost  gone  and  he 
was  forced  to  seet  for  work  but  everywhere  he  went 

[96] 


His  Life  and  Works 

he  was  refused.  He  lived  at  a  Mills  Hotel.  He 
retained  a  strange  fondness  for  his  mother  and  be 
gan  to  write  her,  asking  her  to  address  him  care  of 
general  delivery. 

At  1'ast  he  secured  a  position  at  a  soda  fountain  in 
a  drug-store.  He  worked  there  about  a  week. 
One  night  the  place  got  on  his  nerves  to  such  an 
extent  that  he  wanted  to  break  the  glasses  and  squirt 
fizz  at  every  customer.  To  amuse  himself,  there 
fore,  he  contrived  to  inject  a  good  dose  of  castor 
oil  or  cantharides  into  every  drink  he  served.  The 
proprietor  of  the  shop  was  snoopy,  Peter  told  me, 
and  after  watching  me  out  of  the  corner  of  his  eye 
for  some  time,  he  gave  me  a  good  kick,  which  landed 
me  in  the  middle  of  the  street.  He  tossed  six 
dollars,  the  remainder  of  my  wages,  after  me.  It 
may  appear  strange  to  you  but  I  have  never  been 
happier  in  my  life  than  I  was  that  night  with  six 
dollars  in  my  possession  and  the  satisfactory  knowl 
edge  that  I  would  never  see  that  store  again. 

During  the  next  three  weeks,  Peter  did  not  find 
any  work.  I  doubt  if  he  tried  to  find  any.  He 
often  slept  in  Madison  Square  or  Bryant  Park  with 
a  couple  of  newspapers  over  him  and  a  couple  under 
him.  He  lived  on  the  most  meagre  rations,  some 
of  which  he  collected  in  bread  lines.  He  even 
begged  at  the  kitchen  doors  of  th'e  large  hotels  and 
asked  for  money  on  the  street.  He  has  told  me, 
however,  that  he  was  neither  discouraged  nor  un 
happy.  He  felt  the  most  curious  sense  of  uplift, 

[97] 


Peter  Whiffle 

as  if  he  were  suffering  martyrdom,  as,  indeed,  he 
was.  Life  seemed  to  have  left  him  out  of  its  ac 
counting,  to  have  made  no  arrangements  for  his 
nature.  He  had  no  desire  to  work,  in  fact  his  re 
pugnance  for  work  was  his  strongest  feeling-,  and 
yet,  it  seemed,  he  could  procure  no  money  without 
working.  He  was  willing,  however,  to  go  with 
out  the  things  he  wanted,  really  to  suffer,  rather 
than  work.  I  just  did  not  want  to  do  anything,  he 
has  said.  It  was  a  fixed  idea.  It  was  my  greatest 
joy  to  talk  about  the  social  unrest,  the  rights  of  the 
poor,  the  wicked  capitalist,  and  the  ideas  of  Karl 
Marx  with  the  man  in  the  street,  the  real  man  in  the 
street,  the  man  who  never  went  anywhere  else.  Dur 
ing  this  period,  he  continued  to  write  his  mother 
what  she  afterwards  described  as  "bright,  clever 
letters."  I  have  seen  a  few  of  them,  full  of  the  most 
astounding  energy  and  enthusiasm,  and  a  vague  phil 
osophy  of  quietism.  She  wrote  back,  gently  chiding 
him,  letters  of  resignation  but  still  letters  of  advice, 
breathing  the  hope  that  he  might  grow  into  a  re 
spected  citizen  of  Toledo,  Ohio.  She  did  not  under 
stand  Peter  but  she  loved  him  and  would  have  gone 
to  New  York  to  see  him,  had  not  a  restraining  hand 
burked  her.  Mr.  Whiffle  was  determined  to  hold 
no  more  traffic  with  his  son.  He  refused,  indeed, 
to  allow  Peter's  name  to  be  mentioned  in  his  pres 
ence.  Toledo  talked  with  intensity  behind  his  back 
but  Mr.  Whiffle  did  not  know  that  Hard  as  he 
tried  not  to  show  it,  he  was  disappointed:  it  was 

[98] 


His  Life  and  Works 

impossible  for  him  to  reconcile  his  idea  of  a  son  with 
the  actuality.  Mrs.  Whiffle's  first  mild  suggestion 
that  she  might  visit  Peter  was  received  with  a  ter 
rible  hurricane  of  resentment.  She  did  not  mention 
the  subject  again.  She  would  have  gone  anyway  if 
Peter  had  asked  her  to  come  but  he  never  did. 

Through  an  Italian,  whom  he  met  one  day  in 
Bryant  Park,  Peter  next  secured  a  position  as  a 
member  of  the  claque  at  the  Opera.  Every  night, 
with  instructions  when  to  applaud,  he  received  either 
a  seat  in  the  dress  circle  or  a  general  admission 
ticket.  There  was  also  a  small  salary  attached 
to  the  office.  He  did  not  care  about  the  salary 
but  he  enjoyed  going  to  the  Opera  which  he  had 
never  before  attended.  He  heard  Manon  Lescaut, 
La  Damnation  de  Faust,  Tristan,  Lohengrin,  Tosca, 
Romeo  et  Juliette,  and  Fedora.  But  his  favourite 
nights  were  the  nights  when  Olive  Fremstad  sang. 
He  heard  her  as  Venus  in  Tannhauser,  as  Selika  in 
1'Africaine,  as  Carmen,  and  he  heard  her  in  that 
unique  performance  of  Salome  on  January  22,  1907. 
One  night  he  became  so  interested  in  watching  her 
that  he  forgot  to  applaud  the  singer  who  had  paid 
the  claque.  His  delinquency  was  reported  by  one 
of  his  colleagues  and  the  next  evening,  when  he  went 
to  the  bar  on  Seventh  Avenue  where  the  claque 
gathered  to  receive  its  orders,  he  was  informed  that 
his  services  would  no  longer  be  required. 

After  another  three  weeks  of  vagrancy,  he  found 
another  job,  again  through  a  park  acquaintance. 

[99] 


Peter  Whiffle 

He  has  told  me  that  it  was  the  only  work  he  ever 
enjoyed.  He  became  a  "professor"  in  a  house  of 
pretty  ladies.  His  duty  was  to  play  the  piano. 
Play  us  another  tune,  professor,  the  customers 
would  say,  as  they  ordered  beer  at  a  dollar  a  bottle, 
and  Peter  would  play  a  tune.  Occasionally  one  of 
the  customers  would  ask  him  to  take  a  drink  and  he 
would  order  a  sloe  gin  fizz,  which  Alonzo,  the  sick- 
looking  waiter,  a  consumptive  with  a  wife  and  five 
children  to  support,  would  bring  in  a  sticky  glass, 
which  he  deposited  with  his  long  dirty  fingers  on  the 
ledge  of  the  piano.  Occasionally  some  man,  wait 
ing  for  a  girl,  was  left  alone  with  him,  and  would 
talk  with  him  about  the  suspender  business  or  the 
base-ball  game,  subjects  which  perhaps  might  not 
have  interested  him  elsewhere  but  which  glowed  with 
an  enthralling  fire  in  that  incongruous  environment. 
The  men  preferred  tunes  like  Lucia,  the  current  Hip 
podrome  success  from  Neptune's  Daughter,  or  songs 
from  The  Red  Mill,  in  which  Montgomery  and 
Stone  were  appearing  at  the  Knickerbocker,  or  I 
don't  care.  This  last  was  always  demanded  when  a 
certain  girl,  who  imitated  Eva  Tanguay,  was  in  the 
room.  But  the  women,  when  they  were  alone  in  the 
house,  just  before  dinner  in  the  late  afternoon,  or  on 
a  dull  evening,  always  asked  him  to  play  Hearts  and 
Flowers,  Massenet's  Elegie,  or  the  garden  scene 
from  Faust,  and  then  they  would  drink  whisky  and 
cry  and  tell  him  lies  about  their  innocent  girlhood. 
There  was  even  some  literary  conversation.  One 

[100] 


His  Life  and  Works 

of  the  girls  read  Georges  Ohnet  and  another  ad 
mired  the  work  of  Harris  Merton  Lyon  and  talked 
about  it.  Peter  found  it  very  easy  to  remain  pure. 

He  received  two  dollars  a  night  from  the  house, 
and,  occasionally,  tips.  Out  of  this  he  managed  to 
rent  a  hall  bedroom  on  West  Thirty-ninth  Street 
and  to  pay  for  his  lunches.  The  Madame  provided 
him  with  his  dinner.  Breakfast  he  never  ate.  He 
passed  his  mornings  in  bed  and  his  afternoons  in 
the  park,  usually  with  a  book. 

A  French  girl  named  Blanche,  whom  he  liked 
particularly,  died  one  night.  She  was  taken  to  a 
funeral  chapel  the  next  morning.  The  other  girls 
went  about  the  house  snivelling  and  most  of  them 
sent  flowers  to  the  chapel.  Blanche's  coffin  was 
well  banked  with  carnations  and  tube-roses.  The 
Madame  sent  a  magnificent  standing  floral-piece,  a 
cross  of  white  roses  and,  on  a  ribbon,  the  inscription, 
May  our  darling  rest  in  peace.  Blanche  wore  a 
white  lace  dress  and  looked  very  beautiful  and  very 
innocent  as  she  lay  dead,  Peter  thought.  Her 
mother  came  from  a  distant  city  and  there  was  a 
priest.  The  two  days  preceding  Blanche's  ^burial, 
the  girls  passed  in  tears  and  prayers  ai^d  sentimental 
remarks  about  how  good  she  was.  At  night  they 
worked  as  usual  and  Peter  played  the  piano.  It 
was  very  much  like  the  Maison  Tellier,  he  reflected. 

With  Peter,  change  was  automatic  and  axiomatic, 
but  he  might  have  remained  in  the  house  a  very  long 
time,  as  he  has  assured  me  that  he  was  perfectly  con- 
[101] 


Peter  Whiffle 

tented,  but  for  one  of  those  accidents  that  never  hap 
pen  in  realistic  novels  but  which  constantly  happen 
in  life.  Mrs.  Whiffle's  brother,  the  graduate  of 
Williams,  erstwhile  mentioned,  a  quaint  person,  who 
lived  at  Rochester,  was  a  rich  bachelor.  He  was 
also  a  collector,  not  of  anything  special,  just  a  collec 
tor.  He  collected  old  andirons  and  doorknobs  and 
knockers.  He  also  collected  postmarks  and  home 
spun  coverlets  and  obsolete  musical  instruments. 
Occasionally  he  even  collected  books  and  in  this  re 
spect  his  taste  was  unique.  He  collected  first 
editions  of  Ouida,  J.  T.  Trowbridge,  Horatio 
Alger,  Jr.,  G.  A.  Henty,  and  Oliver  Optic.  He 
had  complete  sets  of  first  editions  of  all  these  au 
thors  and,  unlike  most  book  collectors,  he  read  them 
with  a  great  deal  of  pleasure.  He  especially  enjoyed 
Cudjo's  Cave,  a  novel  he  had  devoured  so  many 
times  that  he  had  found  it  necessary  to  have  the 
volume  rebound,  thus  subtracting  from*  its  value  if 
it  ever  comes  up  at  an  auction  sale. 

This  uncle  had  always  been  prejudiced  against 
Peter's  father  and,  of  late  years,  this  prejudice  had 
Swollen  into  a  first-rate  aversion.  Visits  were  never 
exchanged.  „  Jle.  sccnsldered  himself  an  amateur  of 
p$rts:  and  .Reter's .  father,  a  sordid  business  grub. 
Mrs.  Whiffle,  however,  whose  whole  nature  was  con 
ciliatory,  continued  to  write  long  letters  to  her 
brother.  Recently  she  had  turned  to  him  for  sym 
pathy  and  had  found  a  well  of  it.  Mr.  Fotheringay 
was  ready  to  sympathize  with  anybody  who  had  fled 

[102] 


His  Life  and  Works 

from  old  man  Whiffle's  tyranny.  For  the  first  time 
he  began  to  take  an  interest  in  the  boy  whom  he 
had  never  seen.  His  imagination  fed  on  his  sister's 
letters  until  it  seemed  to  him  that  this  boy  was  the 
only  living  being  he  had  ever  loved.  Peter  hrtd  been 
working  among  the  daughters  of  joy  ab<  ut  two 
months  when  Mr.  Fotheringay  died.  \fy  hen  his 
will,  made  only  a  few  weeks  before  his  de  th,  was 
read,  it  was  discovered  that  he  had  left  his  col 
lections  to  Williams  College  with  the  prov  so  that 
they  be  suitably  housed,  kept  intact,  and  called  the 
John  Alden  Fotheringay  Collection.  Williams  Col 
lege,  I  believe,  was  unable  to  meet  the  terms  of  the 
bequest  and,  as  a  result,  through  a  contingent  clause, 
they  were  sold.  Not  long  ago,  I  ran  across  one  of 
the  books  in  Alfred  F.  Goldsmith's  shop  on  Lexing 
ton  Avenue  in  New  York.  It  was  a  copy  of  J.  T. 
Trowbridge's  The  Satin-Wood  Box  and  it  was 
easily  identified  by  Mr.  Fotheringay's  bookplate, 
which  represented  an  old  man  counting  his  gold, 
with  the  motto,  In  hoc  signo  vinces.  After  this  de 
partment  of  the  estate  had  been  provided  for  in  the 
will,  a  very  considerable  sum  of  money,  well  in 
vested,  remained.  This  was  left  to  Peter  without 
proviso. 

As  he  never  expected  letters  from  any  one  except 
his  mother,  he  seldom  visited  the  post  office  and  this 
particular  communication  from  Mr.  Fotheringay's 
lawyers,  forwarded  by  Mrs.  Whiffle,  lay  in  a  general 
delivery  box  for  nearly  a  week  before  he  called. 

[103] 


Peter  Whiffle 

He  answered  by  telegraph  and  the  next  morning  he 
received  a  substantial  check  at  his  hall  bedroom  ad 
dress.  The  first  thing  he  bought,  he  has  told 
me,  was  a  book,  an  extra-illustrated  copy  of 
Mademoiselle  de  Maupin,  from  Brentano's  in 
Union  Square.  Then  he  went  to  a  tailor  and  was 
measured  for  clothes.  Next  he  visited  Brooks 
Brothers,  on  Twenty-second  Street  and  Broadway, 
and  purchased  a  ready-made  suit,  a  hat,  shoes  and 
stockings,  shirts,  and  neckties.  He  took  a  bath, 
shaved,  had  his  hair  cut,  and,  dressed  in  his  new 
finery,  embarked  for  the  Knickerbocker  in  a  taxi. 
He  walked  into  the  bar  under  Maxfield  Parrish's 
King  Cole  and  ordered  a  Martini  cocktail.  Then 
he  ate  a  dinner,  consisting  of  terrapin,  roast  canvas- 
back,  an  alligator  pear,  and  a  quart  or  two  of  Pontet 
Canet.  It  was  during  the  course  of  this  dinner  that 
it  occurred  to  him,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  that 
he  would  become  an  author.  Four  days  later  he 
sailed  for  Paris. 


[104] 


Chapter  VI 


There  is  a  considerable  period  in  the  life  of 
George  Borrow  for  which  his  biographers  have  been 
absolutely  unable  to  account.  To  this  day  where 
Borrow  spent  those  lost  years  is  either  unknown  or 
untold.  There  is  a  similar  period  in  the  life  of 
Peter  Whiffle,  the  period  including  the  years  1907- 
1913.  In  the  summer  of  the  former  year  I  left 
him  at  Paris  in  the  arms  of  Clara  Barnes,  so  to 
speak,  and  I  did  not  see  him  again  until  February, 
1913=  Subsequently,  when  I  knew  him  better,  I 
inquired  about  these  phantom  years  but  I  never 
elicited  a*  satisfactory  reply.  He  answered  me,  to 
be  sure,  but  his  answer  consisted  of  two  words,  I 
livedo 

Our  next  meeting  took  place  in  New  York,  where 
I  was  a  musical  reporter  on  the  New  York  Times, 
the  assistant  to  Mr.  Richard  Aldrich.  One  night, 
having  dropped  Fania  Marinoff  at  the  theatre  where 
she  was  playing,  I  walked  south-east  until  I 
came  to  the  Bowery  0  I  strolled  down  that  decaying 
thoroughfare,  which  has  lost  much  of  its  ancient 
glory — even  the  thugs  and  the  belles  of  Avenue  A 
have  deserted  it — to  Canal  Street,  where  the  Man 
hattan  Bridge  invites  the  East  Side  to  adventure 
through  its  splendid  portal,  but  the  East  Side  ig- 

[105] 


Peter  Whiffle 

nores  the  invitation  and  stays  at  home.  It  is  the 
upper  West  Side  that  accepts  the  invitation  and  regi 
ments  of  motor-cars  from  Riverside  Drive,  in  con 
tinuous  procession,  pass  over  the  bridge.  For  a 
time  I  stood  and  watched  the  ugly  black  scarabs 
with  their  acetylene  eyes  crawl  up  the  approach 
and  disappear  through  the  great  arch  and 
then,  walking  a  few  steps,  I  stopped  before  the 
Thalia  Theatre,  as  I  have  stopped  so  many  times,  to 
admire  the  noble  facade  with  its  flight  of  steps  and 
its  tall  columns,  for  this  is  one  of  my  dream  theatres. 
Often  have  I  sat  in  the  first  row  of  the  dress  circle, 
which  is  really  a  circle,  leaning  over  the  balustrade, 
gazing  into  the  pit  a  few  feet  below,  and  imagining 
the  horseshoe  as  it  might  appear  were  it  again  fre 
quented  by  the  fashion  of  the  town.  This  is  a 
theatre,  in  which,  and  before  which,  it  has  often 
amused  me  to  fancy  myself  a  man  of  wealth,  when 
my  first  diversion  would  be  a  complete  renovation — 
without  any  reconstruction  or  vandalism — of  this 
playhouse,  and  the  production  of  some  play  by 
Shakespeare,  for  to  me,  no  other  theatre  in  New 
York,  unless  it  be  the  Academy  of  Music,  lends  itself 
so  readily  to  a  production  of  Shakespeare  as  the 
Thalia.  As  I  write  these  lines,  I  recall  that  the  old 
New  York  theatres  are  fast  disappearing:  Wallack's 
is  gone;  Daly's  is  no  more;  even  Weber  and  Fields's 
has  been  demolished.  Cannot  something  be  done 
to  save  the  Thalia,  which  is  much  older  than  any  of 
these?  Cannot  this  proud  auditorium  be  reconse- 

[106] 


His  Life  and  Works 

crated  to  the  best  in  the  drama?  On  this  night  I 
paused  for  a  moment,  musing  before  the  portal, 
somewhat  after  this  manner — for  I  have  always 
found  that  things  rather  than  people  awaken  any 
latent  sentiment  and  sympathy  in  my  heart — and 
then  again  I  passed  on. 

Soon  I  came  to  a  tiny  Chinese  shop,  although  I 
was  still  several  blocks  above  Chinatown.  The 
window  was  stacked  with  curious  crisp  waffles  or 
wafers  in  the  shape  of  lotus  flowers,  for  the  religious 
and  sexual  symbolism  of  the  Chinese  extends  even 
to  their  culinary  functions,  and  a  Chinaman,  just  in 
side,  was  dexterously  transferring  the  rice  batter 
to  the  irons,  which  were  placed  over  the  fire,  turned 
a  few  moments,  and  a  wafer  removed  and  sprinkled 
with  dry  rice  powder,  as  Richelieu,  lacking  a  blotter, 
sprinkled  pounce  on  his  wet  signature.  But  the 
shop  was  not  consecrated  solely  to  the  manufacture 
of  waffles;  there  were  tea-sets  and  puppy-cats,  all 
the  paraphernalia  of  a  Chinese  shop  in  New  York 
— on  the  shelves  and  tables.  It  was  the  waffles,  and 
the  peanut  cakes,  however,  which  tempted  me  to 
enter. 

Once  inside,  I  became  aware  of  the  presence  of  a 
Chinese  woman  at  the  back  of  the  shop,  holding  in 
her  arms  an  exquisite  Chinese  baby,  for  all  Chinese 
babies,  with  their  flat  porcelain  faces,  their  straight 
black  hair,  and  their  ivory  hands,  are  exquisite. 
This  baby,  in  green-blue  trousers  fashioned  of  some 
soft  silk  brocade,  a  pink  jacket  of  the  same  material, 

[107] 


Peter  Whiffle 

and  a  head-dress  prankt  with  ribbons  into  which  or 
naments  of  scarlet  worsted  and  blue-bird  feathers 
were  twisted,  was  smiling  silently  and  gracefully 
waving  her  tiny  ivory  hands  towards  the  face  of  an 
outcast  of  the  streets  who  stood  beside  her  mother. 
I  caught  the  rough  workman's  suit,  the  soiled,  torn 
boots,  the  filthy  cap,  and  the  unkempt  hair  in  my 
glance,  which  reverted  to  the  baby.  Then,  as  I  ap 
proached  the  odd  group,  and  spoke  to  the  mother, 
the  derelict  turned. 

Carl!  he  ejaculated,  for,  of  course,  it  was  Peter. 

I  was  too  much  astonished  to  speak  at  all,  as  I 
stared  at  this  ragged  figure  without  a  collar  or  a 
tie,  with  several  days  growth  of  beard  on  his  usually 
glabrous  cheeks,  and  dirty  finger-nails.  I  had  only 
wit  enough  left  to  shake  his  hand.  At  this  time  I 
knew  nothing  of  his  early  life,  nothing  of  the  for 
tune  he  had  inherited,  and  the  man  in  front  of  me, 
save  for  something  curiously  inconsistent  in  the  ex 
pression  of  the  face,  was  a  tramp.  Certainly  the 
face  was  puzzling:  it  positively  exuded  happiness. 
Perhaps,  I  thought,  it  was  because  he  was  glad  to  see 
me.  I  was  glad  to  see  him,  even  in  this  guise. 

Carl,  he  repeated,  dear  old  Carl!  How  silly  of 
me  not  to  remember  that  you  would  be  in 
New  York.  He  caught  my  glance.  Somewhat  of 
a  change,  eh?  No  more  ruffles  and  frills.  That 
life,  and  everything  connected  with  it,  is  finished. 
Luckily,  you've  caught  me  near  home.  Come  with 
me ;  there's  liquor  there. 

[108] 


His  Life  and  Works 

So  we  walked  out.  I  had  not  yet  spoken  a  word. 
I  was  choking  with  an  emotion  I  usually  reserve  for 
old  theatres,  but  Peter  did  not  appear  to  be  aware 
of  it.  He  chattered  on  gaily. 

Have  you  been  to  Paris  recently?  Where  have 
you  been?  What  have  you  been  doing?  Are  you 
writing?  Isn't  New  York  lovely?  Don't  you 
think  Chinese  babies  are  the  kind  to  have,  if  you  are 
going  to  become  a  father  at  all?  Wasn't  that  an 
adorable  one?  He  waited  for  no  answers.  Look 
at  the  lights  on  the  bridge.  I  live  in  the  shadow  of 
the  span.  I  think  I  live  somewhere  near  the  old 
Five  Points  that  used  to  turn  up  in  all  the  old  melo 
dramas;  you  know,  The  Streets  of  New  York.  It's 
a  wonderful  neighbourhood.  Everybody,  absolutely 
everybody,  is  interesting.  There's  nobody  you 
can't  talk  to,  and  very  few  that  can't  talk.  They  all 
have  something  to  say.  They  are  all  either  dis 
appointed  and  discouraged  or  hopeful.  They  all 
have  emotions  and  they  are  not  afraid  to  show  them. 
They  all  talk  about  the  REVOLUTION.  It  may 
come  this  winter.  No,  I  don't  mean  the  Russian 
revolution.  Nobody  expects  a  revolution  in  Russia. 
Nobody  down  here  is  interested  in  Russia;  the  Rus 
sian  Jews  especially  are  not.  They  have  forgotten 
Russia.  I  mean  the  American  REVOLUTION. 
The  Second  American  REVOLUTION,  I  suppose 
it  will  be  called.  Labour  against  Capital.  The 
Workman  against  the  Leisure  Class.  The  Prole 
tariat  against  the  Idler.  Did  you  ever  hear  of  Piet 

[109] 


Peter  Whiffle 

Vlag?  Do  you  read  The  Masses?  I  go  to  meet 
ings,  union  meetings,  Socialist  meetings,  I.  W.  W. 
meetings,  Syndicalist  meetings,  Anarchist  meetings. 
I  egg  them  on.  It  may  come  this  winter,  I  tell  you ! 
There  will  be  barricades  on  Fifth  Avenue.  Vander- 
bilt  and  Rockefeller  will  be  besieged  in  their  houses 
with  the  windows  shuttered  and  the  doors  barred 
and  the  butler  standing  guard  with  a  machine-gun  at 
some  gazebo  or  turret.  It  will  be  a  real  siege,  last 
ing,  perhaps,  months.  How  long  will  the  food  hold 
out?  In  the  end,  they'll  have  to  eat  the  canary  and 
the  Pekinese,  and,  no,  not  the  cat,  I  hope.  The  cat 
will  be  clever  and  escape,  go  over  to  the  enemy  where 
he  can  get  his  meals.  But  boots,  boot  soup!  Just 
like  the  siege  of  Paris;  each  robber  baron  locked  up 
in  his  stronghold.  Sometimes,  the  housemaid  will 
desert;  sometimes,  the  cook.  The  millionaires  will 
be  obliged  to  make  their  own  beds  and  cook  their 
own  dogs  and,  at  last,  to  man  their  own  machine- 
guns! 

The  mob  will  be  barricaded,  too,  behind  barriers 
hastily  thrown  up  in  the  street,  formed  of  old 
moving-vans,  Rolls-Royces  and  Steinway  grands, 
covered  with  Gobelin  tapestries  and  Lilihan,  Mosul, 
Sarouk,  and  Khorassan  rugs,  the  spoils  of  the  de 
nuded  houses.  With  a  red  handkerchief  bound 
around  my  brow,  I  will  wave  a  red  flag  and  shriek 
on  the  top  of  such  a  barricade.  My  face  will  be 
streaked  with  blood.  We  will  all  yell  and  if  we 
don't  sing  the  Ca  Ira  and  tne  Carmagnole,  we  will 

[no] 


His  Life  and  Works 

at  least  sing  Alexander's  Ragtime  Band  and  My 
Wife's  Gone  to  the  Country. 

Eventually,  Fifth  Avenue  will  fall  and  the  Astors 
and  the  Goulds  will  be  brought  before  the  Tribunal 
of  the  People,  and  if  you  know  any  better  spot  for  a 
guillotine  than  the  very  square  in  which  we  stood 
just  now,  in  that  vast  open  space  before  the  Man 
hattan  Bridge,  over  which  they  all  drive  off  for 
Long  Island,  I  wish  you'd  tell  me.  There  are  those 
who  would  like  to  see  the  killing  done  in  Washing 
ton  or  Madison  Square,  or  the  Plaza  or  Columbus 
Circle,  which,  of  course,  has  a  sentimental  interest 
for  the  Italians,  but  think  of  the  joy  it  would  give 
the  East  Side  mothers,  suckling  their  babies,  and 
the  pushcart  vendors,  and  all  the  others  who  never 
find  time  to  go  up  town  to  have  the  show  right  here. 
Right  here  it  shall  be,  if  I  have  my  way,  and  just 
now  I  have  a  good  deal  of  influence. 

We  had  stopped  before  one  of  those  charming  old 
brick  houses  with  marble  steps  and  ancient  hand- 
wrought  iron  railings  which  still  remain  on  East 
Broadway  to  remind  us  of  the  day  when  stately 
landaus  drove  up  to  deposit  crinolined  ladies  before 
their  portals.  We  ascended  the  steps  and  Peter 
opened  the  door  with  his  key.  The  hallway  was 
dark  but  Peter  struck  matches  to  light  us  up  the 
stairs  and  we  only  ceased  climbing  when  we 
reached  the  top  landing.  He  unlocked  another  door 
which  opened  on  a  spacious  chamber,  a  lovely  old 
room  with  a  chaste  marble  fire-place  in  the  Dorian 

[ml 


Peter  Whiffle 

mode,  and  faded  wall-paper  of  rose  and  grey,  de 
picting  Victoriatn  Greek  females,  taller  than  the 
damsels  drawn  by  Du  Maurier  and  C.  D.  Gibson, 
languishing  in  the  shadows  of  broken  columns  and 
weeping  willow  trees.  Upon  this  paper  were  fas 
tened  with  pins  a  number  of  covers  from  radical 
periodicals,  native  and  foreign,  some  in  vivid  col 
ours,  the  cover  of  The  Masses  for  March,  1912, 
Charles  A.  Winter's  Enlightenment  versus  Violence, 
the  handsome  head  of  a  workman,  his  right  hand 
bearing  a  torch,  printed  in  green,  several  cartoons 
by  Art  Young,  usually  depicting  the  rich  man  as  an 
octopus  or  hog,  and  posters  announcing  meet 
ings  of  various  radical  groups.  Gigantic  letters, 
cut  from  sheets  of  newspaper,  formed  the  legend, 
I.  W.  W.,  over  the  door. 

The  room  was  almost  devoid  of  furniture.  There 
was  an  iron  bed,  with  tossed  bed-clothing,  a  table 
on  which  lay  a  few  books,  including,  I  noted,  one 
by  Karl  Marx,  another  by  English  Walling,  Frank 
Harris's  The  Bomb,  together  with  a  number  of 
copies  of  Piet  Vlag's  new  journal,  The  Masses, 
and  Jack  Marinoff's  Yiddish  comic  weekly,  The  Big 
Stick.  There  was  also  a  pail  on  the  table,  such  a 
pail  as  that  in  which  a  workman  carries  his  mid-day 
meal.  There  were  exactly  two  chairs  and  a  ward 
robe  of  polished  oak  in  the  best  Grand  Rapids  man 
ner  stood  in  one  corner.  All  this  was  sufficiently 
bewildering  but  I  must  confess  that  the  appearance 
of  the  lovely  head  of  a  Persian  cat,  issuing  from 

[112] 


His  Life  and  Works 

under  the  bed-covers,  made  me  doubt  my  reason.  I 
recognized  George  Moore.  Presently  I  made  out 
another  puss,  sitting  beside  a  basket  full  of  kittens 
in  the  corner  near  the  wardrobe. 

I  must  introduce  you,  explained  Peter,  to  the 
mother  of  George  Moore's  progeny.  This  is 
George  Sand. 

By  this  time  I  was  a  fit  subject  for  the  asylum. 
Even  the  Persian  cats  did  not  set  me  right.  Happy 
or  not,  the  man  was  evidently  poor. 

I  suppose  I  would  insult  you  if  I  offered  you  a  job, 
I  stuttered  at  last. 

A  job !  Carl,  don't  you  know  that  I  simply  will 
not  work? 

Well,  and  I  found  this  even  more  difficult  than  my 
first  proposal,  I  hope  you  won't  misunderstand.  .  .  . 
I  haven't  much.  .  .  but  you  must  permit  me  to  give 
you  some  money. 

Money!     What  for? 

Why,  far  you.  .  .  . 

Comprehending  at  last,  Peter  threw  back  his  head 
and  began  to  laugh. 

But  I  don''t  need  money.  .  .  I  never  had  so  little 
use  for  it.  Do  you  realize  what  it  costs  me  to  live 
here?  About  $15  a  week.  That  includes  every 
item,  even  fresh  beef  for  my  cats..  I  was  about  to 
tell  you,  if  you  had  given  me  time — you  always  in 
terrupt — that  I  simply  don't  know  what  to  do  with 
my  money.  Stocks  have  gone  up.  The  labourers 
in  the  factories  at  Little  Falls  are  working  overtime 

[us] 


Peter  Whiffle 

to  make  me  more  prosperous.  Indeed,  one  of  the 
reasons  I  was  so  glad  to  see  you  was  that  I  thought, 
perhaps,  you  could  help  me  to  spend  some  money. 

The  line  about  the  interruptions,  I  should  explain, 
was  simply  a  fabrication  of  Peter's.  If  I  have  set 
our  conversations  down  as  monologues  on  his  part, 
that  is  just  how  they  occurred.  Aside  from  Philip 
Moeller  and  Arnold  Daly,  I  have  never  known  any 
one  to  talk  so  much,  and  my  role  with  Peter,  as  with 
them,  was  that  of  listener.  To  continue,  I  should 
have  known  enough,  even  so  early  in  our  acquain 
tance,  not  to  be  astonished  by  anything  he  might  do, 
but  if  there  had  been  a  mirror  in  the  room,  which 
there  was  not,  I  fancy  I  might  have  looked  into  the 
most  exasperatingly  astonished  face  I  had  ever  seen 
up  to  that  time.  I  managed,  however,  to  laugh. 
Peter  laughed,  too,  and  sat  down.  George  Moore 
leaped  to  his  knee  and  George  Sand  to  his  shoulder, 
rubbing  her  magnificent  orange  brush  across  his 
face. 

And  how  about  your  bookj?     I  asked. 

It's  coming  .  .  .  coming  fast. 

Are  you  still  collecting  notes? 

Notes?  .  .  .  O!  you  are  remembering  what  I 
was  doing  in  Paris.  That  was  only  an  experiment. 
...  I  was  on  the  wrong  track.  ...  I  threw  them 
all  away!  I  couldn't  do  anything  with  that.  .  .  . 
I'm  done  with  such  nonsense. 

I  couldn't  be  astonished  any  more. 

What  are  you  doing  now? 


His  Life  and  Works 

IVc  told  you.  I'm  living.  O !  I'm  full  of  it:  I 
know  what  art  is  now;  I  know  what  real  literature 
is.  It  has  nothing  to  do  with  style  or  form  or  man 
ner.  George  Moore,  not  my  cat  but  the  other  one, 
has  said  that  Christianity  is  not  a  stranger  re 
ligion  than  the  cult  of  the  inevitable  word.  The 
matter  is  what  counts.  I  think  it  was  Theodore 
Dreiser.  .  .  . 

Here  I  did  interrupt: 

I  know  him.  When  I  first  came  to  New  York 
in  1906,  I  wrote  a  paper  about  Richard  Strauss's 
Salome  for  the  Broadway  Magazine.  He  was  the 
editor. 

You  know  Theodore  Dreiser! 

There  was  awe  in  his  tone. 

Very  slightly.  I  saw  something  of  him  then. 
Principally,  I  remember  his  habit,  when  he  was  talk 
ing,  of  folding  his  handkerchief  into  small  squares, 
then  unfolding  it.  He  repeated  this  process  in 
definitely. 

Show  me. 

I  showed  him. 

Well,  I'm  glad  I  met  you  tonight.  ...  It  was  Sis 
ter  Carrie  that  set  me  right;  at  least  I  think  it  was 
Sister  Carrie.  What  a  book!  What  a  masterpiece! 
No  style,  no  form,  just  subject-  The  devils  flogged 
St.  Jerome  in  the  fifth  century  because  he  was  rather 
a  Ciceronian  than  a  Christian  in  his  beautiful  writ 
ing,  but  they  never  will  flog  Theodore  Dreiser!  He 
had  an  idea,  he  knew  life,  and  he  just  wrote  what 


Peter  Whiffle 

he  felt.  He  wasn't  thinking  of  how  to  write  it ;  he 
had  something  to  write.  Have  you  read  Sister  Car 
rie? 

I  explained  that  Edna  Kenton  had  given  me  the 
book  to  read  when  it  first  appeared. 

Strange  as  it  may  appear  to  you,  for  my  way  is 
not,  perhaps,  Dreiser's,  that  book  explains  why  I  am 
here  and  why  I  dress  in  this  manner.  It  explains 
why  I  wander  about  the  streets  and  talk  with  the 
people.  It  explains  why  I  am  hoping  for  the  REV 
OLUTION  (Peter  on  this  occasion  invariably  pro 
nounced  this  word  in  capitals).  It  explains  why  I 
am  an  I.  W.  W.  I  would  even  join  the  Elks,  if 
necessary.  I  think  Dreiser  at  one  time  must  have 
been  an  Elk;  else  how  could  he  describe  Hurstwood 
so  perfectly? 

It  is  amusing,  however,  that  you  who  won't  work 
should  become  an  international  worker! 

I  dare  say  it  is,  drawled  Peter,  stroking  George 
Moore's  back,  as  the  superb  cat  lay  purring  on  his 
knee.  I  dare  say  it  is  but  I'd  go  a  good  deal  farther 
to  get  what  I  want;  I'd  even  seek  employment  in  a 
department  store  or  a  Chinese  laundry.  However, 
it's  coming  without  that,  it's  coming  fast.  I  found 
my  heroine  the  other  day,  a  little  Jewish  girl,  who 
works  in  a  sweat-shop.  She  has  one  blue  eye  and 
one  black  one.  She  has  a  club-foot,  a  hare-lip,  and 
she  is  a  hunch-back.  I  nearly  cried  for  joy  when  I 
discovered  her.  I  met  her  on  Rivington  Street 
walking  with  a  stack  of  men's  overcoats  three  feet 

[116] 


His  Life  and  Works 

high  poised  on  her  head.  She  was  limping  under 
her  burden.  I  followed  her  to  the  shop  and  made 
some  inquiries.  Her  name  is  Rosie  Levenstein.  I 
shall  leave  in  the  deformities,  but  I  shall  change  her 
name. 

Isn't  she  just  a  trifle  unpleasant,  a  little  unsym 
pathetic,  for  a  heroine? 

My  book,  replied  Peter,  is  going  to  be  very  un 
pleasant.  It  is  about  life  and  because  you  and  I  en 
joy  life  is  little  enough  reason  for  us  to  consider  it 
other  than  a  dirty  business.  Life  for  the  average 
person,  for  Rosie,  for  instance,  simply  will  not  do. 
It's  bloody  awful  and,  if  anything,  I  shall  make  it 
worse  than  it  is.  Now,  if  the  comrades  succeed  in 
starting  the  REVOLUTION,  I  am  going  through 
with  it,  straight  through,  breaking  into  drawing- 
rooms  with  the  others.  I'm  going  to  pound  up  a 
Steinway  grand  with  a  hammer.  Here  Peter,  with 
a  suitable  gesture,  brought  his  hand  down  rather 
heavily  on  George  Moore's  head  and  that  one,  in 
dignant,  immediately  rose  and  jumped  down  from 
his  lap,  subsequently  stretched  himself  on  the  floor, 
catching  his  claws  in  the  carpet,  and  after  yawning 
once  or  twice,  retreated  under  the  bed.  George 
Sand  now  left  Peter's  shoulder  to  fill  the  vacant 
place  on  his  knee.  As  I  told  you,  I'm  going  to  wear 
a  red  handkerchief  round  my  brow  and  my  face  will 
be  bloody.  Then,  all  I  have  to  do  is  to  transfer  the 
whole  experience,  everything  I  have  done  and  felt, 
the  thrill,  the  BOOM,  to  Rosie.  Can't  you  see  the 

[117] 


Peter  Whiffle 

picture  in  my  last  chapter  of  the  little,  lame,  hare- 
lipped  hunch-back,  with  one  blue  eye  and  one  black 
one,  marching  up  Fifth  Avenue  with  the  comrades, 
wrapped  in  the  red  flag,  her  face  stained  with  blood, 
humbling  the  Guggenheimers  and  the  Morgans,  dis 
turbing  the  sleep  of  Henry  Clay  Frick,  casting  art 
treasures,  bought  with  the  blood  of  the  poor,  out  to 
the  pavement,  breaking  windows,  shooting,  tortur 
ing,  devastating?  Then  the  triumphant  return  to 
the  East  Side,  Rosie  on  the  men's  shoulders. 
Everybody  tired  and  sweaty,  satiated  and  bloody. 
Now,  all  the  realism  of  the  interiors,  gefillte  fish 
and  schnaps.  But  Rosie  will  sit  down  to  her  dinner 
in  a  Bendel  evening  gown,  raped  from  one  of  the 
Kahn  closets.  The  men  come  back  for  her.  An 
other  procession  down  Canal  Street.  The  police 
charge  the  mob.  Shots.  The  Vanderbilts  and  the 
Astors  and  the  Schwabs  in  their  Rolls-Royces  and 
their  Fierce-Arrows,  fitted  with  machine-guns, 
charge  the  mob.  Terrible  slaughter.  Rosie  dead, 
a  horrid  mess,  fully  described,  lying  on  the  pave 
ment.  Everything  lost.  Everything  worse  than  it 
was  before.  Deportation.  Exile.  Tenements  razed. 
Old  women,  their  sheitels  awry,  wrapped  in  half  a 
dozen  petticoats  and  thick  shawls,  bearing  the  sa 
cred  candlesticks,  fleeing  in  all  directions.  Cries  of 
Wehismir!  Moans.  Groans.  Desolation.  And, 
at  the  end,  a  lone  figure  standing  just  where  you  and 
I  were  standing  a  little  while  ago,  philosophizing, 

[118] 


His  Life  and  Works 

pointing  the  dread  moral,  accenting  the  horror. 
The  lights  go  out.  Darkness.  In  the  distance,  a 
band  is  heard  playing  The  Star  Spangled  Banner. 
Finis. 

Peter's  excitement  became  so  great  that  he  almost 
shrieked;  he  waved  his  arms  and  he  half  rose  out  of 
his  chair.  George  Sand,  too,  found  it  expedient  to 
retreat  under  the  bed.  The  kittens,  tumbling  mew 
ing  out  of  their  baskets,  their  little  tails,  like  Christ 
mas  trees,  straight  in  the  air,  followed  her,  and  soon 
were  pushing  their  paws  valiantly  against  her  belly 
and  drinking  greedily  from  her  dugs. 

It's  wonderful,  I  said  when  Peter,  at  last,  was  si 
lent.  Then,  as  it  seemed,  rather  inconsequentially, 
Do  you  know  Edith  Dale? 

Who  is  Edith  Dale? 

Well,  she's  a  woman,  but  a  new  kind  of  woman, 
or  else  the  oldest  kind;  I'm  not  sure  which.  I'm 
going  to  take  you  there.  Bill  Haywood  goes  there. 
So  does  Doris  Keane.  Everybody  goes  there. 
Everything  is  all  mixed  up.  Everybody  talks  his 
own  kind  of  talk  and  Edith,  inscrutable  Edith,  sits 
back  and  listens.  You  can  listen  too. 

Is  she  writing  a  book? 

No,  she  never  does  anything  like  that.  She 
spends  her  energy  in  living,  in  watching  other  peo 
ple  live,  in  watching  them  make  their  silly  mistakes, 
in  helping  them  make  their  silly  mistakes.  She  is  a 
dynamo.  She  will  give  you  a  good  deal.  At  least, 


Peter  Whiffle 

these  gatherings  will  give  you  a  good  deal  I  think 
you  might  carry  a  chapter  or  two  of  your  novel 
through  one  of  Edith  Dale's  evenings. 

Must  I  change  my  clothes? 

No,  you  are  right  just  as  you  are.  She  will  like 
you  the  better  for  them. 

That's  good.  I  couldn't  change  my  clothes. 
My  friends,  the  comrades,  wouldn't  understand  if 
they  saw  me.  But  you  must  have  a  drink.  I  had 
nearly  forgotten  that  I  had  promised  you  one: 

Peter  opened  the  polished  oak  wardrobe  and  ex 
tracted  therefrom  a  bottle  of  Christopher's  Finest 
Old  White  Scotch  Whisky  and  he  began  to  speak 
of  the  advantage  of  allowing  spirits  to  retain  their 
natural  colour,  which  rarely  happens  in  the  case  of 
whisky,  although  gin  is  ordinarily  to  be  distinguished 
in  this  manner. 


[1120] 


Chapter  VII 


Edith  Dale  had  returned  to  New  York  after 
three  years  in  Florence.  Near  the  old  renaissance 
city,  she  had  purchased  an  ancient  villa  in  the  moun 
tains  and  had  occupied  herself  during  her  sojourn 
there  in  transforming  it  into  a  perfect  environment 
for  the  amusing  people  with  whom  she  surrounded 
herself.  The  villa  originally  had  been  built  with 
out  a  loggia;  this  was  added,  together  with  a  salone 
in  the  general  style  of  the  old  house.  The  lovely 
Italian  garden  was  restored.  Cypresses  pointed 
their  dark  green  cones  towards  the  sky  and  gar 
denias  bloomed.  White  peacocks  and  statues  were 
imported.  Then,  with  her  superlatively  excellent 
taste  at  her  elbow,  Edith  rushed  about  Italy  in  her 
motor,  ravishing  prie-Dieu,  old  pictures,  fans,  china 
dogs,  tapestries,  majolica,  and  Capo  di  Monte  por 
celains,  carved  and  gilded  renaissance  boxes,  fantas 
tic  Venetian  glass  girandoles,  refectory  tables,  di 
vans,  and  divers  bibelots,  until  the  villa  became  a 
perfect  expression  of  her  mood.  When  every  pos 
sible  accent  had  been  added,  she  entertained  in  the 
evening.  Eleanora  Duse,  a  mournful  figure  in  black 
velvet,  stood  on  the  loggia  and  gazed  out  over  the 
hills  towards  Certosa;  Gordon  Craig  postured  in 
the  salone;  and  Gertrude  Stein  commemorated  the 
[121] 


Peter  Whiffle 

occasion  in  a  pamphlet,  printed  and  bound  in  a  Flor 
entine  floral  wall-paper,  which  today  fetches  a  good 
sum  in  old  bookshops,  when  it  can  be  found  at  all. 
To  those  present  at  this  festa,  it  seemed,  doubtless, 
like  the  inauguration  of  the  reign  of  another  Lo 
renzo  the  Magnificent.  There  was,  indeed,  the 
prospect  that  Ease  and  Grace,  Beauty,  Wit,  and 
Knowledge,  would  stroll  through  these  stately  and 
ornate  chambers  for  indefinite  months,  while  hungry 
artists  were  being  fed  in  the  dining-room.  But  to 
Edith,  this  culminating  dreary  festivity  was  the  end. 
She  had  decorated  her  villa  with  its  last  china  dog, 
and  the  greatest  actress  in  the  world  was  standing 
on  her  loggia.  Under  the  circumstances,  further 
progress  in  this  direction  seemed  impossible.  She 
was  even  somewhat  chagrined  to  recall  that  it  had 
taken  her  three  years  to  accomplish  these  things 
and  she  resolved  to  move  more  quickly  in  the  future. 
So,  packing  enough  of  her  treasures  to  furnish  an 
apartment  in  New  York,  she  shut  the  villa  door 
without  looking  behind  her,  and  booked  a  passage 
on  the  next  boat  sailing  from  Genoa. 

In  New  York  she  found  the  top  floor  of  an  old 
mansion  in  Washington  Square  exactly  what  she 
wanted  and  installed  green  glass,  lovely  fabrics,  and 
old  Italian  furniture  against  the  ivory-white  of  the 
walls  and  the  hangings.  She  accomplished  the  set 
ting  in  a  week;  now  she  required  the  further  decora 
tion  which  the  human  element  would  afford.  Art, 
for  the  moment,  was  her  preoccupation  and,  with 
[122] 


His  Life  and  Works 

her  tremendous  energy  and  her  rare  sagacity  and 
taste,  she  set  about,  quite  spontaneously,  arranging 
for  an  exhibition,  the  first  great  exhibition  of  the 
post-impressionist  and  cubist  painters  in  New  York. 
This  show  has  now  become  almost  a  legend  but  it 
was  the  reality  of  that  winter.  It  was  the  first,  and 
possibly  the  last,  exhibition  of  paintings  held  in  New 
York  which  everybody  attended.  Everybody  went 
and  everybody  talked  about  it.  Street-car  conduc 
tors  asked  for  your  opinion  of  the  Nude  Descending 
the  Staircase,  as  they  asked  you  for  your  nickel. 
Elevator  boys  grinned  about  Matisse's  Le  Madras 
Rouge,  Picabia's  La  Danse  a  la  Source,  and  Bran- 
cusi's  Mademoiselle  Pogany,  as  they  lifted  you  to 
the  twenty-third  floor.  Ladies,  you  met  at  dinner, 
found  Archipenko's  sculpture  very  amusing,  but  was 
it  art?  Alfred  Stieglitz,  whose  291  Gallery  had 
nourished  similar  ideas  for  years,  spouted  like  a 
geyser  for  three  weeks  and  then,  after  a  proper  in 
terval,  like  Old  Faithful,  began  again.  Actresses 
began  to  prefer  Odilon  Redon  to  Raphael  Kirch- 
ner.  To  sum  up,  the  show  was  a  bang-up,  whale 
of  a  success,  quite  overshadowing  the  coeval  appear 
ance  of  the  Irish  Players,  chaperoned  by  Lady  Greg 
ory.  It  was  cartooned,  it  was  caricatured,  it  was 
Dr.  Frank  Craned.  Scenes  in  the  current  revues 
at  the  theatres  were  devoted  to  it;  it  was  even  men 
tioned  in  a  burlesque  at  the  Columbia.  John 
Wanamaker  advertised  cubist  gowns  and  ladies  be 
gan  to  wear  green,  blue,  and  violet  wigs,  and  to 

[123] 


Peter  Whiffle 

paint  their  faces  emerald  and  purple.  The  effects 
of  this  aesthetic  saturnalia  are  manifest  even  today. 

Fresh  from  the  quieter  insanity  of  Florence, 
Edith  was  intensely  amused  by  all  this.  It  seemed 
so  extraordinarily  droll  to  find  the  great  public 
awake  to  the  excitement  of  art.  She  surrounded 
herself  with  as  many  storm  centres  as  possible. 
The  crowds  flocked  to  her  place  and  she  made  them 
comfortable.  Pinchbottles  and  Curtis  Cigarettes, 
poured  by  the  hundreds  from  their  neat  pine  boxes 
into  white  bowls,  trays  of  Virginia  ham  and  white 
Gorgonzola  sandwiches,  pale  Italian  boys  in  aprons, 
and  a  Knabe  piano  were  added  to  the  decorations. 
Arthur  Lee  and  Lee  Simonson,  Marsden  Hartley, 
Andrew  Dasburg,  Max  Weber,  Charles  Demuth, 
Bobby  Jones — just  out  of  college  and  not  yet  a  de 
signer  of  scenery — ,  Bobby  Parker,  all  the  jeunes 
were,  confronted  with  dowagers  from  the  upper 
East  Side,  old  family  friends,  Hutchins  Hapgood, 
Ridgely  Torrence,  Edwin  Arlington  Robinson,  and 
pretty  women.  Arguments  and  discussions  floated 
in  the  air,  were  caught  and  twisted  and  hauled  and 
tied,  until  the  white  salon  itself  was  no  longer  static. 
There  were  undercurrents  of  emotion  and  sex. 

Edith  was  the  focus  of  the  group,  grasping  this 
faint  idea  or  that  frail  theory,  tossing  it  back  a  com 
plete  or  wrecked  formula,  or  she  sat  quietly  with  her 
hands  folded,  like  a  Madonna  who  had  lived  long 
enough  to  learn  to  listen.  Sometimes  she  was  not 
even  at  home,  for  the  drawing-room  was  generally 

[124] 


His  Life  and  Works 

occupied  from  ten  in  the  morning  until  midnight. 
Sometimes — very  often,  indeed — ,  she  left  her  guests 
without  a  sign  and  went  to  bed.  Sometimes — and 
this  happened  still  oftener — ,  she  remained  in  the 
room  without  being  present.  Andrew  Dasburg 
commemorated  this  aspect  in  a  painting  which  he 
called  The  Absence  of  Edith  Dale.  But  always, 
and  Dasburg  suggested  this  in  his  flame-like  por 
trait,  her  electric  energy  presided.  She  was  the 
amalgam  which  held  the  incongruous  group  to 
gether;  she  was  the  alembic  that  turned  the  dross  to 
gold. 

When  dulness,  beating  its  tiresome  wings,  seemed 
about  to  hover  over  the  group,  she  had  a  habit  of 
introducing  new  elements  into  the  discussion,  or  new 
figures  into  the  group  itself,  and  one  day  it  must 
have  occurred  to  her  that,  if  people  could  become  so 
excited  about  art,  they  might  be  persuaded  to  be 
come  excited  about  themselves  too,  and  so  she  trans 
ferred  her  interest  to  the  labouring  man,  to  unions, 
to  strikes,  to  the  I.  W.  W.  I  remember  the  first 
time  I  saw  her  talking  earnestly  with  a  rough  mem 
ber  of  the  garment-maker's  union.  Two  days  later, 
Bill  Haywood,  himself,  came  in  and  the  tremendous 
presence  of  the  one-eyed  giant  filled  the  room,  s^em- 
ing  to  give  it  a  new  consecration.  Debutantes 
knelt  on  the  floor  beside  him,  while  he  talked  simply, 
but  with  an  enthralling  intensity,  about  the  things 
that  interested  him,  reinforcing  his  points  by  crush 
ing  the  heels  of  his  huge  boots  into  the  Shirvan  rug 

[125] 


Peter  Whiffle 

or  digging  his  great  hands  into  the  mauve  tapestry 
with  which  the  divan  was  upholstered.  Miners, 
garment-workers,  and  silk-weavers  were  the  hon 
oured  guests  in  those  days.  The  artists  still  came 
but  the  centre  of  interest  had  shifted.  Almost  half 
of  every  day,  Edith  now  spent  in  Paterson,  New 
Jersey,  where  the  strike  of  the  hour  was  going  on, 
attending  union  meetings  and  helping  to  carry 
pickets  back  and  forth  in  her  motor.  She  continued 
to  be  diverted  by  the  ironies  and  complexities  of 
life. 

Recruits  to  the  circle  arrived  from  Europe — for 
Edith  knew  half  of  Europe — ;  solemn  celebrities, 
tramps,  upper  Fifth  Avenue,  Gramercy  Park,  Green 
wich  Village,  a  few  actresses — I  took  Fania  Marin- 
off  there  several  times — were  all  mixed  up  with 
green  glass  vases,  filled  with  fragrant  white  lilies, 
salmon  snapdragons,  and  blue  larkspurs,  pinchbot- 
tles,  cigarette  stubs,  Lincoln  Steffens,  and  the  paint 
ings  of  Marsden  Hartley  and  Arthur  B.  Davies. 
Over  the  whole  floated  the  dominant  odours  of 
Coty's  chypre  and  stale  beer. 

Edith  herself  was  young — about  thirty-four — 
and  comely,  with  a  face  that  could  express  anything 
or  nothing  more  easily  than  any  face  I  have  ever 
seen.  It  was  a  perfect  mask.  She  wore  lovely 
gowns  of  clinging  turquoise  blue,  spinel,  and  jacinth 
silks  from  Liberty's.  When  she  went  out,  she 
wrapped  herself  in  more  soft  silks  of  contrasting 
shades,  and  donned  such  a  hat  as  Donatello's  David 

[126] 


His  Life  and  Works 

wears,  graceful  with  its  waving  plumes  and  an  ava 
lanche  of  drooping  veils. 

I  spent  whole  days  at  Edith's  and  was  nearly  as 
much  amused  as  she.  To  be  truthful,  I  dare  say  I 
was  more  amused,  because  she  tired  of  it  before  I 
did.  But  before  these  days  were  over  I  brought  in 
Peter.  I  had  telephoned  Edith  that  we  were 
coming  for  dinner  and,  when  we  arrived,  the 
rooms  were  nearly  empty,  for  she  found  it  as  easy 
to  rid  herself  of  people  as  to  gather  them  in. 
Neith  Boyce  was  there,  I  remember,  her  lovely  red 
hair  caught  in  a  low  knot  and  her  lithe  body  swathed 
in  a  deep  blue  brocade.  There  were  two  young 
men  whos'e  names  I  never  knew,  for  Edith  never  in 
troduced  anybody  and  these  young  men  did  not  inter 
est  me  sufficiently  to  compel  me  to  converse  with 
them  and  they  interested  Edith  so  little  that  they 
were  never  allowed  to  appear  again.  The  dinner, 
as  always,  was  simple:  a  soup,  roast  beef  and 
browned  potatoes,  peas,  a  salad  of  broccoli,  a 
loaf  of  Italian  bread,  pats  of  sweet  butter,  and 
cheese  and  coffee.  Bottles  of  whisky,  red  and 
white  wine,  and  beer  stood  at  intervals  along  the 
unclothed  refectory  table.  The  cynical  Tuscan 
butler,  who  had  once  been  in  the  service  of  Lady 
Paget,  never  interrupted  the  meals  to  serve  these. 
You  poured  out  what  you  wanted  when  you  wanted 
it.  The  dinner  was  dull.  The  young  men  tried 
to  make  an  impression  on  Edith,  with  a  succession 
of  witty  remarks  of  the  sort  which  would  have 

[127] 


Peter  Whiffle 

made  them  exceedingly  popular  in  anything  like 
what  Ward  McAllister  describes  as  Society  as  I 
Have  Found  It,  but  it  was  apparent  that  their  host 
ess  was  unaware  of  their  very  existence.  Neith  and 
I  exchanged  a  few  inconsequential  phrases  con 
cerning  D.  H.  Lawrence's  Sons  and  Lovers.  Peter, 
dressed  as  he  had  been  when  I  met  him  in  the  Chi 
nese  shop,  and  even  dirtier,  was  utterly  silent. 
Long  before  coffee  was  served,  Edith  left  the  table 
and  went  into  the  salon  to  write  letters. 

When  we  followed  her  later,  there  were  already 
a  few  people  there,  talking  in  corners,  and  more 
were  arriving.  Now  and  again,  Edith  glanced  up 
from  her  letters  to  greet  one  of  the  newcomers  but 
she  did  not  rise.  Peter  wandered  about  the  room, 
looking  at  the  pictures,  occasionally  picking  up  a 
book,  of  which  there  were  a  great  number  lying 
about  on  the  tables.  Donald  Evans,  correct  and 
rather  portentous  in  his  studied  dignity,  made  an 
early  appearance.  At  this  period  he  was  involved 
in  the  composition  of  the  Sonnets  from  the  Patago- 
nian.  He  drew  a  manuscript  from  his  pocket  and 
laid  it  on  the  desk  before  Edith.  Over  her 
shoulder  I  read  the  line, 

She  triumphed  in  the  tragic  turnip  field. 

Hutchins  Hapgood,  haggard  and  restless  and  yet 
strangely  sympathetic,  came  in  and  joined  uneasily 
in  an  eager  conversation  with  a  young  woman  with 
bobbed  hair  who  stood  in  a  corner,  fingering  an  Afri 
can  primitive  carving  in  wood  of  a  naked  woman 

[128] 


His  Life  and  Works 

with  long  pointed  breasts.  Yorska  was  there,  the 
exotic  Yorska  with  her  long  nose,  her  tragic  eyes, 
her  mouth  like  a  crimson  slit  in  a  face  as  white  as 
Pierrot's,  a  modern  Judith  looking  for  a  modern 
Holof ernes  and  never  finding  him;  Jo  Davidson 
with  his  jovial  black  beard,  Bacchus  or  satyr  in 
evening  clothes;  Edna  Kenton,  in  a  pale  green  float 
ing  tunic  of  her  own  design;  Max  Eastman,  poet 
and  Socialist,  and  his  wife,  Ida  Rauh;  Helen  West- 
ley,  a  tall  angular  scrag  with  something  of  the  aris 
tocracy  of  the  Remsen-Meseroles  informing  her 
spine,  who  had  acquired  a  considerable  reputation 
for  being  "paintable"  by  never  paying  the  slightest 
attention  to  her  clothes;  Henrietta  Rodman,  the 
round-faced,  cherubic  Max  Weber.  ...  I  caught 
all  these  and,  quite  suddenly,  although  for  some 
time,  I  remembered  afterward,  I  had  been  aware 
of  the  odour  of  Coeur  de  Jeannette,  Clara  Barnes. 
She  was  sitting,  when  I  discovered  her,  on  a  sofa 
before  the  fire-place,  in  which  the  coals  were 
glowing.  She  was  more  matronly  in  figure  and  was 
dressed  with  some  attempt  at  stylization.  She  was 
wearing  a  robe  of  batik,  iridescent  in  the  shades  of 
the  black  opal,  with  a  belt  of  moonstones  set  in 
copper,  and  huge  ear-rings  fashioned  of  human 
hair.  On  her  feet  were  copper-coloured  sandals 
and  I  was  pleased  to  note  that  her  dress  was  long 
enough  to  cover  her  ankles.  I  leaned  over  the  back 
of  the  sofa  and  addressed  her, 
Miss  Barnes,  I  believe  .  .  . 

[129] 


Peter  Whiffle 

She  turned. 

Oh,  it's  you.  What  a  long  time  it's  been  since 
Paris. 

I  perceived  that  her  new  manner  was  not  exclu 
sively  a  matter  of  clothes. 

Peter  is  here  tonight,  I  hazarded. 

Is  he?  she  parried,  without  any  apparent  interest. 

What  are  you  doing  now? 

What  I  have  always  been  doing,  studying  for 
opera.  That  teacher  in  Paris  nearly  ruined  my 
voice.  I  am  really,  it  seems,  a  contralto,  and  that 
fool  had  me  studying  Manon.  Carmen  is  to  be  my 
great  role.  I  have  a  splendid  teacher  now  and  I 
am  working  hard.  In  two  or  three  more  years,  I 
should  be  ready  for  my  debut.  I  want  to  get  into 
the  Metropolitan.  .  .  .  You,  I  hear,  are  with  the 
Times.  Perhaps  you  can  help  me.  .  .  . 

So  she  rambled  on.  I  had  heard  everything  she 
had  to  say  many  times  before  and  I  have  heard  it 
many  times  since;  I  found  it  hard  to  listen. 
Looking  across  the  room,  I  saw  Peter  gazing  at 
us.  So  he  knew  she  was  there,  but  he  only  smiled 
and  turned  back  his  attention  to  the  book  he  held  in 
his  hand.  Clara,  however,  had  caught  his  eye. 
Her  face  became  hard  and  bitter. 

He  might  speak  to  me,  she  said  and  there  was  a 
tone  of  defiance  in  her  voice.  Then,  more  calmly,  I 
never  understood  Peter;  I  don't  understand  him 
now.  For  three  days,  a  week,  perhaps,  I  thought 
he  loved  me.  One  day  he  disappeared,  without  any 

[130] 


His  Life  and  Works 

explanation;  nothing,  not  a  sign,  not  a  word.  I 
knew  that  he  had  left  Paris,  because  he  had  taken 
the  cat  with  him.  I  was  not  very  much  in  love  with 
him  and  so  it  didn't  hurt,  at  least  it  didn't  hurt 
deeply,  but  what  do  you  make  of  a  man  like  that? 

He  contradicts  himself,  I  put  in  rather  lamely, 
searching  for  words. 

That's  it!  He  contradicts  himself.  Why,  do 
you  know,  I  don't  believe  he  cared  at  all  for  my  sing 
ing.  After  the  day  I  sang  for  you,  he  never  asked 
me  to  sing  again  and  when  I  offered  to  he  always  put 
me  off. 

An  old  lady  in  a  black  satin  dress,  trimmed  with 
cataracts  of  jet  beads,  addressed  me  and  fortunately 
drew  me  out  of  Clara's  orbit. 

Mrs.  Dale  has  some  remarkable  pictures  of  the 
new  school,  she  began,  but,  of  course,  I  don't  like 
them.  Now,  if  you  want  to  see  pictures — I  hadn't 
said  that  I  did — you  should  go  to  Henry  Prick's. 
Do  you  know  Mr.  Frick? 

No,  but  I  know  the  man  who  shot  him. 

The  old  lady  grew  almost  apoplectic  and  the  jet 
beads  jangled  like  ^Eolian'harps  in  a  heavy  wind. 
She  managed,  however,  to  gasp  out  with  a  sound 
that  was  remarkably  like  gurgling,  O !  indeed ! 
How  interesting!  Then,  peering  about  nervously,  I 
don't  suppose  he's  here  tonight. 

I  haven't  seen  him,  I  said,  but  he  often  comes 
here  and,  as  I  see  Emma  Goldman  yonder,  I  should 
think  it  extremely  likely  that  he  will  appear  later. 

[131] 


Peter  Whiffle 

O!  indeed!  The  old  lady  leitmotived  once  more, 
How  interesting!  How  very  interesting!  Would 
you  mind  telling  me  the  time? 

It's  a  quarter  of  ten. 

O !  As  late  as  that ! — She  had  just  arrived. 
Really,  I  had  no  idea  it  was  so  late.  John — this  to 
a  decrepit  old  gentleman  in  shiny  evening  clothes — , 
John,  it's  a  quarter  to  ten. 

What  of  it?  querulously  demanded  the  old  gen 
tleman,  with  a  curious  upward  turn  to  his  ridicu 
lous  side-whiskers.  What  of  it? 

The  old  lady,  forgetting  her  fifty  years  of  train 
ing  in  the  most  exclusive  drawing-rooms,  turned  and 
whispered  something  in  his  ear. 

Now  it  was  the  turn  of  the  old  gentleman  to  feel 
a  touch  of  apoplexy. 

Berkman!  he  roared,  Berkman!  Where  is  the 
scoundrel?  Where  is  the  assassin? 

The  old  lady  looked  almost  shame-faced  as  she 
tried  to  pacify  John:  He's  not  here  yet,  but  he  may 
come. 

We  shall  leave  at  once,  announced  the  old  gentle 
man  decisively.  Edith  is  trespassing  on  our  good 
nature.  She  is  gping  too  far.  We  shall  leave  at 
once. 

He  offered  the  old  lady  his  arm  and  they  made 
their  way  rapidly  out,  rubbing  against,  in  the  pas 
sageway,  a  one-eyed  man  nearly  seven  feet  tall. 
Now  Edith  had  neither  observed  the  coming  or  the 
going  of  this  elderly  couple  but  Bill  Haywood  had 

[132] 


His  Life  and  Works 

not  crossed  the  threshold  before  she  was  shaking 
his  hand  and,  a  moment  later,  she  had  drawn  him 
with  her  through  a  doorway  into  a  little  room  at 
one  side  of  the  salon,  where  she  could  talk  to  him 
more  privately. 

The  most  fascinating  man  alive,  volunteered  a 
stranger  at  my  elbow,  a  little  fellow  with  a  few 
wisps  of  yellow  hair  and  a  face  like  a  pug-dog,  that 
Bill  Haywood.  No  show  about  him,  nothing  theat 
rical,  not  a  bit  like  the  usual  labour  leader.  Genu 
ine  power,  that's  what  he  has.  He  never  goes  in 
for  melodrama,  not  even  at  a  strike  meeting.  The 
other  day  in  Paterson,  a  child  was  hurt  while  the 
police  were  clearing  the  street  of  strikers.  One  of 
the  policemen,  with  his  billy,  struck  down  the  boy's 
mother  and  a  man  who  was  helping  her  to  her  feet. 
At  the  meeting  the  next  day,  Haywood  recited  the 
facts,  just  the  bare  facts,  without  comment  or  colour 
and  without  raising  his  voice.  What's  the  police 
man's  name?  cried  a  voice  in  the  hall.  His  name, 
replied  Haywood,  as  coldly  as  possible,  is  said  to  be 
Edward  Duffy;  his  number  is  72.  That  was  all, 
but  Edward  Duffy,  No  72,  had  been  consigned  to 
the  perpetual  hatred  of  every  one  of  the  two  thou 
sand  men  present  at  the  meeting.  He  spurns  elo 
quence  and  soap-box  platitudes.  He  never  gibbers 
about  the  brotherhood  of  man,  the  socialist  com 
monwealth  rising  upon  the  ruins  of  the  capitalist 
system,  death  to  the  exploiters,  and  all  the  other 
cliches  of  the  ordinary  labour  agitator.  Workers 

[133] 


Peter  Whiffle 

want  simple,  homely  facts  regarding  their  trades 
and  he  gives  them  these  facts.  He  is — 

What  are  all  these  God  damn  bourgeois  doing 
here?  demanded  a  high,  shrill  voice  from  the  next 
room. 

My  companion  smiled.  That  is  Hippolyte 
Havel.  He  always  asks  that  question,  even  at  an 
archist  meetings,  but  it  isn't  a  cliche  with  him;  it's 
part  of  his  charm. 

Hippolyte,  sweet,  blinking,  amblyoptic  Hippo 
lyte,  his  hair  as  snarly  as  the  Medusa's,  strode  into 
the  room. 

Hush,  some  one  adjured  us,  Hush !  Yorska  is  go 
ing  to  recite. 

After  a  few  seconds,  there  was  silence.  All  the 
chairs  were  filled;  many  were  sitting  on  the  floor  or 
standing  against  the  wall  or  in  the  doorways;  ladies 
in  black  velvet,  wearing  diamonds,  ladies  in  batik 
and  Greenwich  village  sacks,  ladies  with  bobbed 
hair  and  mannish-cut  garments,  men  in  evening 
dress,  men  in  workmen's  clothes.  No  one  present, 
I  noted,  looked  quite  so  untidy  as  Peter.  Yorska, 
her  tragic  face  emerging  from  three  yards  of  black 
tulle  and  satin,  recited,  in  French,  Baudelaire's  Le 
Balcon,  fingering  a  red  rose  at  her  waist.  As  she 
uttered  the  last  lines  with  passionate  intensity, 

— O  serments!     O  parfums!     O  baisers  infinis! 

there  was  a  scattered  clapping  of  hands,  a  few  ex 
clamations  of  delight.  Now  the  Tuscan  butler,  as 

[134] 


His  Life  and  Works 

cynical  as  Herbert  Spencer,  threw  open  the  doors  to 
the  dining-room,  exposing  the  table  laden  with 
sandwiches,  salads,  cold  meats,  glasses,  and  bottles, 
including  kiimmel  bottles  in  the  form  of  Russian 
bears.  A  few  of  the  young  radicals  were  the  first  to 
surge  to  the  repast.  My  companion  and  I  slipped 
out  in  time  to  hear  an  instructive  lecture  on  the 
subject  of  collective  bargaining  from  a  young  man 
with  a  black  flowing  tie,  who  grasped  a  pinchbottle 
so  fervidly  that  I  felt  sure  it  would  never  leave  his 
hand  until  he  had  usurped  the  contents.  Represent 
ation  was  a  word  which,  in  its  different  senses,  was 
often  used  that  evening.  The  labourers  cooed  over 
it,  worshipped  it,  and  set  it  up  in  a  shrine,  while  the 
artists  spurned  it  and  cast  it  from  them;  "mere  pho 
tography"  was  the  phrase. 

Helen  Westley,  black  and  limp,  stood  beside  me. 

Who,  she  asked,  is  that  young  man  you  brought 
here  tonight? 

Peter  Whiffle,  I  replied. 

Peter  Whistle?  was  her  interrogative  reproduc 
tion. 

Presently  the  quiet  even  voice  of  Bill  Haywood 
was  heard  from  the  drawing-room,  a  voice  that  by 
its  very  mildness  compelled  silence : 

Violence,  yes,  we  advocate  violence  of  the  most 
violent  sort,  violence  that  consists  in  keeping  your 
moutri  shut  and  your  hands  in  your  pockets. 
Don't  fold  your  arms,  I  say  to  the  men,  but  keep 
your  hands  in  your  pockets  to  keep  hired  thugs  and 

£135] 


Peter  Whiffle 

detectives  from  putting  bombs  there.  In  doing  this 
and  staying  on  strike  you  are  committing  the  most 
violent  acts  in  the  world,  for  you  are  stopping  in 
dustry  and  keeping  it  stopped  until  the  mill  owners 
grant  your  demands,  an  eight  hour  day,  two  looms 
to  a  worker,  and  higher  wages. 

See  how  he  talks,  pointed  out  my  unidentified 
companion,  rubbing  his  flabby  fingers  the  while 
around  the  flange  of  his  wine-glass,  about  half-full 
of  red  California  wine.  No  rage,  no  emotion,  a 
simple  explanation  of  the  humanities.  Let  us  go 
in  where  we  can  hear  him  better. 

But  when  we  joined  the  throng  in  the  drawing- 
room,  we  discovered  that  Haywood  was  not  begin 
ning.  He  had  already  finished  what  he  had  to  say 
to  the  group  and  had  returned  to  his  more  in 
timate  conversation  with  Edith.  He  brought  back 
to  my  mind  Cunninghame  Graham's  description  of 
Parnell,  not  popular,  in  the  hail-fellow-well-met 
and  loudly  cheered  conception  of  the  word,  but  yet 
with  an  attraction  for  all  women  whom  he  came 
across,  who  were  drawn  to  him  by  his  careless  treat 
ment  of  them,  and  by  the  wish  that  nature  has  im 
planted  in  their  sex,  to  be  the  rulers  of  all  men  who 
stand  above  their  kind. 

Did  it  ever  occur  to  you?  my  companion  began 
again,  that  there  is  some  strange  relationship  be 
tween  trade  unionism  and  tribal  magic?  You  know 
how  the  men  of  one  union  cannot  do  the  work  for 

[136] 


His  Life  and  Works 

the  men  of  another  union.  What  is  this  restriction 
but  the  taboo? 

What,  indeed?  I  echoed  pleasantly,  unable  to 
think  of  anything  more  apposite  to  say.  Besides, 
my  attention  was  wandering.  I  had  discovered 
Peter,  who  appeared  to  be  engrossed  in  the  charms 
of  a  pretty  girl  of  whom  I  knew  little  except  that 
her  name  was  Mahalah  Wiggins. 

Now  the  round-faced,  cherubic  Max  Weber  rose 
to  speak. 

The  art  consciousness  is  the  great  life  conscious 
ness,  he  began  in  his  somewhat  high-pitched  voice. 
Its  product  and  the  appreciation  of  its  product  are 
the  very  flower  of  life.  .  .  .  Hutchins  Hapgood's 
companion  continued  to  finger  lovingly  the  polished 
wooden  African  figure.  ...  Its  presence  in  man 
is  Godliness  on  earth.  It  humanizes  mankind. 
Were  it  spread  broadcast  it  would  do  away  with 
dry,  cold  intellectualism,  which  dead  and  unfired, 
always  seeks  refuge  in  pretending  to  be  more  than  it 
is.  ...  Bill  Haywood,  the  giant  Arimaspian,  was 
pounding  the  seat  of  the  brocaded  sofa  with  his 
great  fist.  .  .  .  Art  or  art  consciousness  is  the 
real  proof  of  genuine  human  sympathy.  It  oozes 
spiritual  expression.  Were  it  fostered  it  would 
sooner  solve  the  great  modern  economic  problem 
than  any  labour  propaganda.  .  .  .  Helen  Westley 
was  yawning,  with  a  great  open  jaw,  which  she  made 
no  effort  to  conceal.  ...  A  lack  of  this  art  con- 

[137] 


Peter  Whiffle 

sciousness — Weber  was  very  earnest,  but  in  no  sense 
theatrical — ,  on  the  part  of  both  capital  and  labour, 
is  one  cause  of  this  great  modern  struggle.  Were 
this  art  consciousness  more  general,  material  pos 
session  would  be  less  valued;  the  covetous  spirit 
would  soon  die  out.  .  .  .  Yorska,  a  wraith  of 
black  satin  and  black  tulle,  her  pale  Pierrot  face  slit 
with  crimson  and  punctuated  with  two  black  holes, 
lined  with  purple,  stood  in  the  doorway  motionless, 
like  another  Rachel,  with  one  hand  lifted  above  her 
head,  grasping  the  curtain,  trying  to  look  uncovet- 
ous.  .  .  .  Art  socializes  more  than  socialism  with 
its  platform  and  its  platitudes.  .  .  .  Bravo!  This 
from  Hippolyte  Havel.  .  .  .  'Economists  go  not 
deep  enough  into  the  modern  monetary  disease. 
They  deal  only  with  materialism.  They  concen 
trate  only  on  what  is  obvious,  the  physical  starva 
tion  of  the  toiling  class,  but  never  do  they  see  or 
seem  to  realize  the  spiritual  starvation  or  the  lack 
of  an  art  consciousness  to  both  capital  and  labour. 
They  would  argue  that  the  material  relief  must 
come  first.  I  reply,  now  as  always,  we  must  begin 
with  the  spiritual.  I  do  not  see,  however,  how  the 
spiritual  or  aesthetic  can  be  separated  from  the 
material.  .  .  .  Clara  Barnes  gave  an  angry  shake 
to  her  long  ear-rings,  but  Donald  Evans  had  the 
rapt  attentive  air  of  a  man  hearing  a  great  truth  for 
the  first  time.  .  .  .  The  common  solution  of  this 
great  problem  is  too  dry,  too  matter  of  fact,  too  cal 
culated,  too  technical,  too  scientifically  intellectual 

[138] 


His  Life  and  Works 

and  not  enough  intellectually  imaginative.  Art  con 
sciousness  is  not  merely  a  form  of  etiquette,  nor  a 
phase  of  culture — it  is  life — the  quality  of  sensitive 
breathing,  seeing,  hearing,  developed  to  a  high  true 
spirituality.  Man  would  value  man  more.  The 
wonder  of  and  the  faith  in  other  human  beings 
would  kindle  a  new  social  and  spiritual  life. 

That's  good  talk,  was  Bill  Haywood's  com 
ment. 

What  does  it  all  mean?  Clara  Barnes  caught 
my  attention  again;  it  was  obvious  that  she  could 
catch  no  one  else's. 

It  means  what  you  are  willing  or  able  to  put  into 
it,  nothing  more,  I  affirmed. 

Well,  said  Clara,  yawning,  I  guess  I  can't  put 
much  into  it.  This  is  worse  than  a  party  I  went  to 
last  week,  given  by  a  baritone  of  the  Aborn  Opera 
Company. 

At  this  point,  a  little  school-marm  type  of  person, 
with  a  sharp  nose  and  eye-glasses,  rose  and  shrilly 
began  to  complain. 

I  am  a  mere  lay  woman.  I  don't  know  a  thing 
about  modern  art.  I've  been  trying  to  learn  some 
thing  for  five  years.  In  the  effort,  I  have  attended 
all  the  meetings  of  this  kind  that  I  could  in  Paris, 
New  York,  and  London.  There's  always  a  lot  of 
talk  but  nothing  is  ever  clear.  Now  I'd  like 
to  know  if  there  isn't  some  explanation  of  modern 
art,  an  explanation  that  a  mere  lay  woman  could 
understand. 

[139] 


Peter  Whiffle 


There  was  a  ripple  of  amused  laughter  among 
the  young  artists  and  a  rapid  exchange  of  glances, 
but  not  one  of  them  rose.  Instead,  a  rather 
massive  female,  utterly  unknown  to  me,  with  as 
many  rows  of  gold  braid  across  her  chest  as  a 
French  academician,  a  porter  at  the  Credit  Lyonnais, 
or  a  soldier  in  the  army  of  the  Prince  of  Monaco, 
stood  on  her  feet. 

What,  exactly,  would  you  like  to  know?  she  asked 
in  a  voice  in  which  authority  and  confidence  were 
equal  elements. 

I'd  like  to  know  everything,  but  I'd  be  satisfied 
with  anything.  What,  for  instance,  is  the  meaning 
of  that  picture? 

She  pointed  to  Andrew  Dasburg's  The  Absence 
of  Edith  Dale,  a  cubistic  contribution  to  aesthetic 
production  in  several  planes  and  the  colours  of  red, 
yellow,  and  blue. 

The  massive  lady  began  with  some  hesitation. 
Her  confidence  had  not  deserted  her  but  she  seemed 
to  be  searching  for  precise  words. 

Well,  she  said,  that  picture  is  the  kind  of  picture 
that  gives  pleasure  to  the  kind  of  people  who  like 
that  kind  of  picture.  The  arrangement  of  planes 
and  colours  is  very  satisfying.  Perhaps  I  could  ex 
plain  it  to  you  in  terms  of  music.  Do  you  under 
stand  the  terminology  of  music? 

Not  at  all,  snapped  the  little  woman  with  the  eye 
glasses. 

The  massive  lady  seemed  gratified  and  continued, 
[140] 


His  Life  and  Works 

In  that  case,  you  may  have  difficulty  in  following 
me,  but  if  you  take  the  first  and  second  themes  of  a 
sonata,  their  statement,  the  development  or  work 
ing-out  section,  the  recapitulation,  the  coda.  .  .  . 
It  has  some  relation  to  the  sonata  form  certainly, 
but.  .  .  .  The  artist  is  in  the  room,  the  artist  who 
painted  the  picture.  Won't  you  explain  the  picture, 
Mr.  Dasburg? 

Andrew,  very  much  amused,  did  not  take  the 
trouble  to  rise. 

The  picture  is  there,  he  said.  You  can  look  at 
it.  Then,  after  a  pause,  he  added,  Henry  James 
says,  Woe,  in  the  aesthetic  line,  to  any  example  that 
requires  the  escort  of  precept.  It  is  like  a  guest 
arriving  to  dine  accompanied  by  constables. 

Then,  said  the  little  lady,  solemnly,  I  say,  Woe 
to  that  picture,  woe  to  it,  for  it  certainly  requires 
the  escort  of  precept.  Moreover,  I  don't  think  any 
one  here  knows  anything,  not  a  thing!  she 
cried,  her  voice  rising  to  a  shrill  intensity,  not  a 
blessed  thing.  It's  just  like  the  last  chapter  of 
Alice.  If  I  shouted,  Why,  you're  only  a  pack  of 
cards,  you'd  all  fly  up  in  the  air,  a  lot  of  flat  paste 
boards  with  kings,  queens,  aces,  and  deuces  painted 
on  your  faces!  I  shall  never  ask  another  question 
about  modern  art.  My  private  impression  is  that 
it's  just  so  much  junk. 

Very  indignant  now,  she  wrapped  an  ice-wool 
shawl  around  her  bony  shoulders  and  made  her  way 
out  of  the  room. 

[HI] 


Peter  Whiffle 

There  wasn't  an  instant's  pause  and  her  depar 
ture  caused  no  comment.  A'  new  speaker  began, 

The  world,  it  may  be  stated,  for  the  purposes  of 
classification,  is  divided  into  four  groups :  the  prole 
tariat,  the  aristocrats,  the  middle  class,  and  the  art 
ist  class.  The  artist  class  may  be  called  by  any 
other  name,  bohemians,  anarchists,  revolutionists, 
what  you  will.  It  includes  those  who  think  and  act 
freely,  without  traditions  or  inhibitions,  and  not  all 
people  who  write  or  paint  belong  to  this  class  at  all. 
The  artist  class  lives  the  way  it  wants  to  live.  The 
proletariat  and  the  aristocrats  live  the  way  they 
have  to  live.  The  middle  class  is  composed  of 
members  of  the  proletariat  trying  to  live  like  the 
aristocrats.  .  .  . 

My  mind  wandered.  I  glanced  across  at  Peter. 
He  was  still  absorbed  in  Mahalah  Wiggins  and  did 
not  appear  to  be  listening  to  the  speaker.  Yet,  if 
he  were  really  writing  a  realistic  novel,  the  talk,  the 
whole  atmosphere  of  the  evening  should  have  in 
terested  and  enthralled  him.  He  never  looked  up 
and  he  was  whispering  very  rapidly. 

Some  people  resemble  animals;  some,  perhaps, 
minerals;  assuredly,  some  resemble  flowers.  Ma 
halah  Wiggins  was  like  a  pansy.  Her  hair  was 
black  with  purple  lights ;  her  eyes  were  a  pale  pansy 
blue;  her  face  bore  an  ingenuous  pansy  expression 
that  made  one  wonder  why  pansies  were  for 
thoughts.  She  wore  a  purple  velvet  dress  with  long 
tight  sleeves  ending  in  points  which  reached  her 

[142] 


His  Life  and  Works 

knuckles,  and,  around  her  throat,  a  chain  of  crystal 
beads  that  hung  almost  to  her  waist. 

Intercepting  the  long  look  I  gave  the  girl,  Neith 
Boyce  smiled. 

Are  you,  too,  interested  in  Mahalah?  she  asked. 

I  am  interested  in  the  effect  she  is  making. 

She  always  makes  an  effect,  Neith  rejoined. 

Who  is  she? 

An  orphan.  Her  father  left  her  a  little  money, 
which  she  is  spending  at  the  Art  Students'  League, 
trying  to  learn  to  draw.  Her  only  real  talents  are 
obvious.  She  knows  how  to  dress  herself  and  she 
knows  how  to  attract  men.  Your  friend  seems  to 
like  her. 

He  does,  indeed. 

Mahalah  comes  here  often  and  always  spends  the 
evening  in  a  corner  with  some  man.  She  seems  to 
prefer  married  men.  Is  your  friend  married? 

No. 

A  fat  woman  in  a  grey  crepe  dress,  embroidered 
in  steel  beads,  standing  in  the  centre  of  the  room, 
shifted  my  attention. 

Who  is  that?     I  asked. 

That  is  Miss  Gladys  Waine,  replied  Neith.  She 
is  the  wife  of  Horace  Arlington,  the  sculptor. 

Miss  and  a  wife?     What  is  she  then,  herself? 

Nothing.  She  does  not  write,  or  paint,  or  com 
pose.  She  isn't  an  actress.  She  is  nothing  but  a 
wife,  but  she  insists  on  retaining  her  individuality 
and  her  name.  If  any  one  addresses  her  as  Mrs. 

[143] 


Peter  Whiffle 

Arlington,  she  is  furious,  and  if  you  telephone  her 
house  and  ask  for  Mrs.  Arlington,  although  she 
may  answer  the  telephone  herself,  she  will  assure 
you  that  Mrs.  Arlington  is  not  in,  does  not,  in  fact, 
live  there  at  all.  She  adores  Horace,  too.  The 
curious  thing  is  that  Horace's  first  wife,  who  di 
vorced  him,  has  never  given  up  his  name,  of  which 
she  appears  to  be  very  proud.  She  is  always  called 
Mrs.  Horace  Arlington  and  trembles  with  rage 
when  some  tactless  person  remembers  her  own 
name. 

My  anonymous  companion  was  by  my  side  again 
with  a  plate  of  chocolate  ice  cream  which  he  offered 
me. 

Did  you  ever  try  eating  chocolate  ice  cream  and 
smoking  a  cigarette  simultaneously?  he  asked.  If 
you  haven't,  allow  me  to  recommend  the  combina 
tion.  The  flavour  of  both  cigarette  and  ice  cream 
is  immensely  improved. 

An  old  lady  with  an  ear-trumpet,  thinking  she  had 
been  addressed,  took  the  plate  of  ice  cream  from  his 
outstretched  hand,  leaned  over  us  and  queried,  Eh? 

I  say,  said  my  incognito  companion,  that  there  is 
nothing  like  a  good  dose  of  castor  oil. 

Nothing  like  it  for  what?  she  shrieked. 

As  a  carminative!     he  yelled. 

But  I  don't  suffer  from  that  complaint,  she  argued. 

Allow  me  to  congratulate  you,  madame,  and  he 
bowed  to  her. 

As  we  were  saying,  he  continued,  in  a  confidential 

[144] 


His  Life  and  Works 

manner,  grasping  my  arm,  one  cannot  be  too  careful 
in  writing  a  drama.  Weak,  low-born  people  in 
trouble  are  pathetic;  the  middle  classes  in  the  same 
plight  are  subjects  for  melodrama  or  comedy;  but 
tragedy  should  deal  with  kings  and  queens. 

The  groups  separated,  came  together,  separated, 
came  together,  .separated,  came  together :  syndical 
ists,  capitalists,  revolutionists,  anarchists,  art 
ists,  writers,  actresses,  "perfumed  with  botanical 
creams,"  feminists,  and  malthusians  were  all  mixed 
in  this  strange  salad.  I  talked  with  one  and  then 
another,  smoking  constantly  and  drinking  a  great 
deal  of  Scotch  whisky.  Somehow,  my  strange 
companion,  like  the  Duchess  in  Alice,  contrived 
always  to  be  at  my  side.  Remembering  the  situa 
tion  at  the  Queen's  croquet  party,  I  could  not  help 
feeling  grateful  that  his  chin  was  square  and  that  he 
was  shorter  than  I.  At  one  o'clock  I  had  a  head 
ache  and  decided  to  go  home.  I  looked  for  Edith. 

She  went  to  bed  hours  ago,  Neith  explained. 

Then  I  made  a  vain  search  through  the  rooms  for 
Peter. 

One  of  the  two  young  men  who  had  dined  with  us 
stopped  me. 

If  you  are  searching  for  your  friend,  he  said, 
he  went  away  with  Mahalah  Wiggins. 


[us] 


Chapter  VIII 


Friendship  usually  creates  onerous  obligations. 
Our  friends  are  inclined  to  become  exigent  and  de 
manding.  They  learn  to  expect  attentions  from  us 
.and  are  hurt  when  we  do  not  live  up  to  these  ex 
pectations.  Friends  have  an  unpleasant  habit  of 
weighing  on  our  consciences,  occupying  too  much  of 
our  time,  and  chiding  us  because  we  have  failed 
them  in  some  unimportant  particular.  Is  it  strange 
that  there  are  moments  when  we  hate  them? 
Friendship,  indeed,  is  as  perilous  a  relationship  as 
marriage;  it,  too,  entails  responsibility,  that  great 
god  whose  existence  burdens  our  lives.  Seemingly 
we  never  escape  from  his  influence.  Each  newly 
contracted  friendship  brings  another  sacrifice  to 
the  altar  of  this  very  Christian  divinity.  But  there 
was  no  responsibility  connected  with  my  friendship 
for  Peter.  That  is  why  I  liked  him  so  much.  When 
he  went  away,  he  seldom  notified  me  of  his  depar 
ture;  he  never  wrote  letters,  and,  when  he  returned, 
I  usually  re-encountered  him  by  accident.  In  the 
whole  of  our  long  acquaintance,  there  never  was  a 
period  in  which  he  expected  me  to  telephone  him 
after  a  decent  interval.  We  were  both  free  in  our 
relationship,  as  free  as  it  is  possible  for  two  people, 
who  are  fond  of  each  other,  to  be.  There  was  a 
great  charm  in  this. 

[146] 


His  Life  and  Works 

A  whole  month  went  by,  after  Edith  Dale's  party, 
without  my  hearing  from  him.  Then  I  sought  him 
out.  By  this  time,  I  knew  him  well  enough  to  be 
prepared  for  some  transmutation;  but  I  was  scarcely 
prepared  for  what  I  saw.  His  room  on  East  Broad 
way  had  been  painted  ivory-white.  On  the  walls 
hung  three  or  four  pictures,  one  of  Marsden  Hart 
ley's  mountain  series,  a  Chinese  juggler  in  water 
colour  by  Charles  Demuth,  a  Picabia,  which  os 
tensibly  represented  the  mechanism  of  a  locomotive, 
with  real  convex  brass  piston-rods  protruding  from 
the  canvas,  a  chocolate  grinder  by  Marcel  Du- 
champ,  and  an  early  Picasso,  depicting  a  very  sick- 
looking  pale  green  woman,  lying  naked  in  the  gutter 
of  a  dank  green  street.  There  were  lovely  desks  and 
tables,  Adam  and  Louis  XIV  and  Frangois  I,  a 
chaise  longue,  banked  with  striated  taffeta  cushions, 
purple  bowls  filled  with  spiked,  blue  flowers,  Ber 
gamo  and  Oushak  rugs,  and  books  bound  in  gay 
Florentine  wall-papers.  The  bed  was  covered  with 
a  Hungarian  homespun  linen  spread,  embroidered 
in  gay  worsteds.  The  sun  poured  through  the  win 
dow  over  George  Moore's  ample  back  and  he  looked 
happier. 

Peter  was  wearing  green  trousers,  a  white  silk 
shirt,  a  tie  of  Chinese  blue  brocade,  clasped  with  a 
black  opal,  and  a  most  ornate  black  Chinese  dress 
ing-gown,  around  the  skirt  of  which  a  silver  dragon 
chased  his  tail.  He  was  combed  and  brushed  and 
there  was  a  faint  odour  of  toilet-water.  His  nails 

[147] 


Peter  Whiffle 

were  manicured  and  on  one  of  his  little  fingers  I  ob 
served  a  ring  which  I  had  never  seen  him  wear  be 
fore.  Later,  when  I  examined  it  more  closely,  it 
proved  to  be  an  amethyst  intaglio,  with  Leda  and 
the  Swan  for  its  subject.  It  has  been  said,  perhaps 
too  often,  that  you  cannot  make  a  silk  purse  out  of 
a  sow's  ear.  It  is  even  more  true  that  you  cannot 
make  a  sow's  ear  out  of  a  silk  purse. 

I  rose  to  the  room:  It's  nicer  than  Edith's. 

It's  not  bad,  Peter  admitted.  I  didn't  get  it  fixed 
up  at  first.  I  like  it  better  now,  don't  you? 

I  liked  your  friend,  the  other  night,  he  continued. 

You  mean  Edith? 

Yes,  you  must  take  me  there  again. 

I'm  sorry  but  that  is  impossible.  She  has  given 
up  her  apartment  and  returned  to  Florence.  But, 
I  added,  I  didn't  know  that  you  had  talked  together. 

We  didn't  exchange  three  words,  not  even 
two,  he  said,  but  I  took  her  in  and  she  took  me  in. 
We  like  each  other,  I'm  sure,  and  some  day  we'll 
meet  again.  Look,  he  added,  sweeping  his  arm 
around,  see  what  her  glamour  has  given  me,  a  new 
life! 

But  why  did  you  leave  so  early? 

I  met  a  girl.  .  .  . 

The  next  few  weeks  have  left  a  rather  confused 
impression  in  my  mind,  perhaps  because  Peter  him 
self  seemed  to  be  confused.  He  never  spoke  of  his 
book.  Occasionally  we  went  to  the  theatre  or  to 
a  concert.  I  remember  a  concert  of  Negro  music 

[148] 


His  Life  and  Works 

at  Carnegie  Hall,  when  there  were  twenty-four 
pianos  and  thirty  banjos  in  the  band  and  the  Negroes 
sang  G'wine  up,  Go  Down,  Moses,  Rise  and  Shine, 
Run  Mary,  Run,  and  Swing  Low,  Sweet  Chariot, 
with  less  of  the  old  plantation  spirit  than  either  Pe 
ter  or  I  could  have  assumed,  but  when  the  band  broke 
into  ragtime,  the  banjos  twanged,  the  pianos  banged, 
the  blacks  swayed  back  and  forth,  the  roof  was 
raised,  and  glory  was  upon  us.  Once,  coming  out 
of  -^Eolian  Hall,  after  a  concert  given  by  Elena 
Gerhardt,  we  were  confronted  by  a  wagon-load  of 
double  basses  in  their  trunks.  Two  of  the  monsters, 
with  their  fat  bellies  and  their  long  necks,  stood 
vis-a-vis  on  the  sidewalk  and  seemed  to  be  convers 
ing,  while  their  brothers  on  the  wagon,  a  full  nine, 
wore  the  most  ridiculously  degage  air  of  dignity. 
We  will  not  sit  down,  not  here  at  any  rate,  they 
plainly  said,  but  they  did  not  complain.  Peter 
laughed  a  good  deal  at  them  and  remarked  that  the 
aristocrats  in  the  French  Revolution  must  have  gone 
to  the  guillotine  in  much  the  same  manner,  only  the 
absurd  double  basses  in  their  trunks  had  no  roses  to 
smell.  Never  have  I  seen  inanimate  objects  so  ani 
mate  save  once,  at  a  rehearsal  in  the  darkened  Bel- 
asco  Theatre,  when  the  curly  gold  backs  of  the  or 
nate  chairs,  peeping  over  the  rails  of  the  boxes,  as 
sumed  the  exact  appearance  of  Louis  XIV  wigs  on 
stately  gentlemen.  We  heard  Toscanini  conduct 
the  Ninth  Symphony  at  the  Metropolitan  Opera 
House  and  we  went  to  see  Mrs.  Leslie  Carter  play 

[149] 


Peter  Whiffle 

Paula  Tanqueray.  Often,  in  those  days,  we  dined 
at  the  Pavilion  d'Orient,  an  Armenian  restaurant 
on  Lexington  Avenue.  Peter  particularly  enjoyed 
a  pudding  called  Tavouk  Gheoksu,  made  of  shred 
ded  chicken-breasts,  pounded  rice  flour,  powdered 
sugar,  and  cinnamon,  and  Midia  Dolma,  which  are 
mussels  stuffed  with  raisins  and  rice  and  pignolia 
nuts.  Studying  the  menu  one  night,  it  occurred  to 
him  that  the  names  of  the  dishes  would  make  ex 
cellent  names  for  the  characters  of  a  play.  The 
heroine,  of  course,  he  said,  would  be  Lahana  Sarma 
and  the  adventuress,  Sgara  Keofte;  Enguinar  is  a 
splendid  name  for  a  hero,  and  the  villain  should  be 
called  Ajem  Pilaf !  There  was  a  negro  cafe  in  the 
basement  of  a  building  on  Thirty-eighth  street,  which 
we  frequently  visited  to  see  a  most  amazing  mulatto 
girl,  apparently  boneless,  fling  herself  about  while  a 
pitch-black  boy  with  ivory  teeth  pummelled  his  drum, 
at  intervals  tossing  his  sticks  high  in  the  air  and 
catching  them  dexterously,  and  the  pianist  pounded 
Will  Tyers's  Maori  out  of  the  piano.  Occasionally 
we  patronized  more  conventional  cafes,  one  espe 
cially,  where  Peter  was  interested  in  a  dancer,  who 
painted  her  face  with  Armenian  bole  and  said  she 
was  a  descendant  of  a  Hindu  Rajah. 

It  was  during  this  period  that  Peter  nourished  a 
desire  to  be  tattooed  and  we  sought  out  masters  of 
the  art  on  the  Bowery  and  at  Coney  Island.  For 
hours  at  a  time  he  would  examine  the  albums  of 
designs  or  watch  the  artist  at  work  decorating  sailors 

[150] 


His  Life  and  Works 

and  stevedores.  One  of  these  young  men  came 
nearly  every  day  until  his  entire  body,  with  the  ex 
ception  of  his  eye-balls,  lips,  and  nails,  had  become  a 
living  Persian  carpet,  a  subtle  tracery  of  arabesques 
and  fantastic  beasts,  birds  and  reptiles.  The  process 
of  application  was  interesting.  First,  the  pattern 
must  be  pricked  out  on  glazed  paper,  smeared  with 
lamp-black;  this  was  laid  on  the  surface  to  be 
tattooed  and  the  outline  left  by  the  lamp-black  was 
worked  over  with  needles.  The  artist  utilized  a 
piece  of  wood  into  which  were  fixed  with  wires,  nine 
or  ten  sharp  points.  The  victims  seemed  to  suffer  a 
good  deal  of  pain,  but  they  suffered  in  silence.  It 
was  not,  however,  fear  of  pain  that  caused  Peter  to 
hesitate.  I  think  he  would  have  been  frescoed  from 
head  to  foot,  could  he  have  once  decided  upon  a  de 
sign.  Day  after  day,  he  looked  over  the  sketches, 
professional  symbols,  military,  patriotic,  and  re 
ligious,  symbols  of  love,  metaphorical  emblems  and 
emblems  fantastic  and  historical,  frogs,  tarantulas, 
serpents,  hearts  transfixed  with  arrows,  crosses  sur 
mounted  by  spheres,  and  cannon.  He  was  most 
tempted,  I  think,  by  the  design  of  an  Indian  holding 
aloft  the  flag  of  the  United  States. 

Late  in  March,  he  suggested  a  trip  to  Bermuda. 

We  must  go  somewhere,  he  explained,  and  why 
not  Bermuda?  It's  not  too  far  away. 

I  had  been  working  hard  and  welcomed  the  idea 
of  a  vacation.  To  the  question  of  a  destination  I 
was  comparatively  indifferent.  It  was,  however* 

[151] 


Peter  Whiffle 

not  too  easy  to  arrange  for  even  a  brief  leave  of  ab 
sence  from  the  Times  during  the  busy  Winter 
months.  By  pleading  incipient  nervous  prostration, 
however,  I  managed  to  accomplish  my  purpose. 

On  the  day  marked  for  our  departure,  I  set  out, 
bags  in  hands,  for  the  office  of  the  steamship  com 
pany  on  lower  Broadway,  where  Peter  had  com 
missioned  me  to  stop  for  the  tickets.  There,  a  clerk 
behind  the  counter  gave  me  a  note.  It  was  from 
Peter. 

Dear  Carl,  it  ran,  I've  cancelled  our  bookings. 
I  can't  go.  Come  in  to  see  me  today  and  we'll  ar 
range  another  trip. 

An  hour  later  I  found  Peter  in  bed  in  his  room  on 
East  Broadway.  He  was  consuming  a  raw-beef 
sandwich  but  he  laid  it  down  to  grasp  my  hand. 

I'm  sorry,  he  began,  but  I  don't  know  how  I  ever 
happened  to  hit  on  the  idea  of  Bermuda.  When  I 
awoke  this  morning,  the  thought  appalled  me;  I 
couldn't  get  out  of  bed. 

The  counterpane  was  strewn  with  pamphlets 
relating  to  foreign  travel.  The  telephone  rang. 

Excuse  me,  he  said,  as  he  clutched  the  receiver. 
Then,  by  way  of  explanation,  It's  the  agent  of  the 
Cunard  Line.  I  want  to  ask  about  the  southern 
route. 

He  did.  He  asked  about  sailings  for  Italy, 
Africa,  India,  and  even  Liverpool  and  then  he  told 
the  agent  that  he  could  not  decide  what  to  do  but 
he  would  let  him  know  later. 

[152] 


His  Life  and  Works 

Carl,  he  exclaimed  suddenly,  let's  go  to  Alaska ! 

I  shook  my  head. 

It  may  be  that  we  shall  meet  there  by  chance  some 
day,  but  I  don't  believe  you  can  make  up  your  mind 
to  go  there  this  week. 

I'm  afraid  not,  he  assented  ruefully.  I  suppose 
it's  hard  for  you  to  understand. 

I  understand  well  enough,  I  replied,  but  under  the 
circumstances  you  will  have  to  travel  alone  or  get 
some  one  else  to  go  with  you.  While  you  are  de 
ciding,  my  leave  of  absence  will  expire. 

A  few  days  later  he  telephoned  me. 

I'm  really  going  to  Bermuda,  was  his  message. 
I've  had  bookings  on  every  boat  sailing  for 
Europe  the  past  week  and  cancelled  them  all.  My 
first  idea  was  the  right  one.  Bermuda  is  a  change, 
it's  near  at  hand,  and  I  can  get  back  quickly  if  I  don't 
like  it.  Come  to  Bermuda  with  me,  Carl! 

When  are  you  sailing?  I  asked.  I'll  come  down 
to  see  you  off. 

On  the  day  set,  I  went  to  the  wharf,  and  to  my 
great  surprise,  found  Peter  there,  just  as  he  had 
promised  he  would  be,  an  hour  before  sailing  time. 
If  he  kept  an  engagement  at  all,  he  always  kept  it 
on  time.  He  had  made  preparations,  buying  new 
summer  clothes,  he  explained,  and  a  new  innovation 
trunk.  As  he  never  knew  how  long  he  would  stay 
in  one  place  or  where  he  would  go  from  there,  he 
always  carried  a  great  deal  of  apparently  unneces 
sary  baggage.  This  time  he  had  five  trunks  with  him 

[153] 


Peter  Whiffle 

and  several  bags,  including  two  for  the  cats.  As 
we  stood  on  the  wharf  together,  we  saw  these  trunks 
being  hoisted  aboard.  Then  we  walked  up  the 
gang-plank  and  went  to  seek  out  his  cabin.  He  did 
not  like  it,  of  course,  and  he  hunted  up  the  purser 
and  asked  to  be  transferred  to  another  part  of  the 
boat.  The  ship  was  crowded  and  no  other  cabin 
was  vacant,  but  the  purser,  spurred  to  extra  effort  by 
the  tip  which  Peter  handed  him,  promised  to  try  to 
get  him  one  of  the  officers'  rooms.  A  little  later  this 
transfer  was  effected  and,  before  I  left  the  boat, 
Peter  was  installed  in  his  new  quarters.  As  I  bade 
him  farewell,  I  thought  he  looked  a  little  wistful. 
I  watched  the  boat  pull  out  into  the  river. 

Five  hours  later,  as  I  was  working  in  the  tower 
of  the  New  York  Times,  I  was  called  to  the  tele 
phone. 

I  said,  Hello,  and  almost  dropped  the  receiver, 
for  I  had  heard  Peter's  voice  from  the  other  end  of 
the  wire. 

I'm  back  on  East  Broadway,  he  groaned.  Do 
come  down. 

When  I  arrived,  I  found  him  propped  up  in  bed, 
drinking  tea,  which  he  shared  with  me. 

I  just  couldn't  go!  It  wouldn't  have  been  right 
to  go  feeling  the  way  I  did  about  it.  Something 
dreadful  would  have  happened. 

But  I  saw  the  boat  cast  off  her  moorings. 

Peter  grinned. 

We  were  steaming  down  the  river.     I  was  very 

[154] 


His  Life  and  Works 

tired  and,  having  the  desire  to  rest  in  bed,  I  began  to 
undress.  Suddenly  it  came  over  me  that  I  had  made 
a  great  mistake.  I  put  my  clothes  on  again  rapidly, 
dashed  to  the  deck,  and  hunted  up  the  purser.  You 
know,  he  had  already  befriended  me.  I  told  him 
that  I  had  just  opened  my  mail  and  my  telegrams 
and  had  run  across  one  informing  me  of  the  violent 
illness  of  my  father — you  know  how  much  that 
would  really  worry  me ! — and  that  I  must  go  back. 
He  informed  me  that  this  was  impossible,  but  an 
other  bill — a  very  large  one  this  time — made  him 
more  sympathetic  and  my  disembarkation  was  ar 
ranged  with  the  aid  of  a  tug-boat.  I  even  got  my 
trunks  off,  but  I  had  to  cry  a  good  deal  to  do  that. 
I'm  very  sorry  for  you,  Mr.  Whiffle,  the  purser 
said.  He  will  never  forget  me,  I'm  sure. 

The  telephone  rang.  Peter  lifted  the  receiver 
from  the  hook  and  I  heard  him  say,  Please  reserve 
me  a  deck  cabin  on  the  Kronprinz  Wilhelm  sailing 
tomorrow.  He  turned,  as  he  put  the  receiver  back: 
I'm  not  crazy  about  the  North  German  Lloyd  but 
I've  already  sailed  this  week  on  the  French  Line, 
the  Holland-American,  the  Cunard,  and  the  White 
Star.  I  had  to  change. 

By  telephone  the  next  day,  I  learned  that  Peter 
had  not  sailed  on  the  Kronprinz  Wilhelm. 

Do  you  know,  he  said,  I've  hit  on  a  solution.  I 
could  not  decide  where  to  go — every  place  has  its 
faults — but  it  has  occurred  to  me  that  I  am  not  com 
pelled  to  go  anywhere;  I  can  stay  on  right  here! 

[155] 


Peter  Whiffle 

There  is  still  a  pendant  to  this  part  of  my  tale. 
In  May,  Peter  informed  me  that  he  had  rented  a 
house  on  Long  Island,  a  small  cottage  near  Great 
Neck,  with  a  big  fire-place  and  furniture  that  would 
do.  He  took  me  out  with  him  the  first  night.  He 
had  engaged  a  man  and  his  wife,  Negroes,  to  care 
for  the  place  and  cook.  We  enjoyed  a  very  good 
dinner  and  he  seemed  to  have  settled  down  for  the 
summer  but  in  the  morning,  at  breakfast,  I,  and  the 
Negroes,  learned  that  he  was  dissatisfied. 

I  don't  like  the  place  much,  he  explained,  at  least, 
I  don't  think  I  do.  At  least,  I'm  not  going  to  stay 
here. 

He  paid  the  servants  two  weeks  wages  and  dis 
missed  them.  Then  he  telephoned  an  expressman 
to  call  for  his  trunks,  none  of  which  had  been 
opened.  Carrying  the  bags,  two  of  which  contained 
cats,  we  caught  the  9  o'clock  train  back  to  town. 

Before  this  last  fluctuation,  some  time  in  April, 
I  think  it  was,  Peter's  father  really  did  die.  Peter 
did  not  go  to  Toledo  for  the  funeral  but,  after  it 
was  over,  Mrs.  Whiffle  came  to  New  York  and  I  met 
her  one  day  at  tea.  There  was  no  change  in  Peter; 
certainly  not  a  band  of  black  on  his  arm. 

He  did  seem  feo  have  one  fixed  idea  that  spring, 
an  idea  that  centred  on  marriage. 

I'm  not  particularly  in  love  with  any  one,  he  ad 
mitted,  and  so  it  is  rather  difficult  to  choose,  but  I 
want  children  and  my  children  must  have  a  mother. 
There  is  Mahalah  Wiggins  .  .  .  and  there  is  the 

[156] 


His  Life  and  Works 

Rajah's  grand-daughter.  Well,  I  don't  know  that 
they  will  marry  me,  but  I  must  decide  what  I  am 
going  to  do  before  I  give  them  a  chance  to  decide 
what  they  are  going  to  do ! 

A  week  or  so  later:  I've  been  considering  this 
question  of  marriage.  It's  a  serious  step.  I  can't 
rush  into  a  thing  like  that.  Mahalah  doesn't  like 
cats.  You  know,  I  couldn't  give  up  my  cats.  I 
can't  marry  a  woman  who  doesn't  like  cats.  Luckily 
I  haven't  asked  her. 

A  few  days  later :  I  will  marry  Mahalah,  I  think. 
She  understands  me;  she  doesn't  seem  to  mind  the 
crazy  things  I  do.  She  is  beginning  to  like  the 
cats.  She  is  healthy  and  she  might  produce  fine  chil 
dren. 

Another  interval  and  then:  She  has  accepted  me. 
Isn't  it  wonderful  for  her  to  love  me  at  my  age  for 
my  money  alone ! 

The  preparations  for  the  wedding  were  porten 
tous,  although  it  was  to  be  celebrated  as  quietly  as 
possible.  There  were  clothes  to  buy  and  an  apart 
ment  to  be  furnished.  He  left  the  decision  of  the 
day  and  place  to  Mahalah — fortunately  that  was  her 
affair — but  there  was  endless  discussion  about  the 
honeymoon.  He  considered  in  turn  nearly  every 
spot  on  the  globe,  including  Patagonia  and  Abys 
sinia.  As  the  day  in  May  set  for  the  ceremony  ap 
proached,  Maine  was  mentioned  rather  more  fre 
quently  than  any  other  locality,  but  I  had  no  real 
conviction  that  they  would  ultimately  go  there.  I 

[157] 


Peter  Whiffle 

was  to  be  the  sole  attendant  at  the  wedding*  That 
much  seemed  to  be  settled. 

The  great  day  dawned  and  brought  with  it  a 
windy  rain.  I  knew  that  Peter  detested  windy  days ; 
one  of  his  superstitions  associated  them  with  dis 
aster.  He  did  not  telephone  me  in  the  morning  and 
his  silence  seemed  ominous.  Nevertheless,  I  put  on 
a  morning  coat  and  a  silk  hat  and  presented  myself 
at  his  rooms  an  hour  before  the  minute  set  for  the 
ceremony,  which  was  to  be  celebrated  in  a  little 
church  in  the  neighbourhood.  On  another  day,  I 
would  not  have  been  surprised  to  find  a  note  from 
Peter  instead  of  himself  but  when,  on  reaching  the 
top  landing,  I  discovered  the  door  open,  and  an  old 
charwoman,  packing  up  books  and  bowls  inside, 
handed  me  a  note  with  the  superfluous  information 
that  Mr.  Whiffle  had  gone  away,  my  knees  shook  to 
such  an  extent  that  I  wondered  if  I  had  suddenly  be 
come  afflicted  with  tabes. 

I  managed  to  ask,  Where? 

I  dunno,  sir.     He  took  his  trunks. 

I  opened  the  letter. 

Dear  Carl,  it  ran,  I  just  couldn't  do  it.  It 
wouldn't  be  right  to  do  it,  if  I  feel  that  way,  would 
it?  And  I  do,  indeed,  I  do!  I  told  you  I  was  not 
in  love  and  it's  hard  to  make  up  your  mind  if  you 
don't  feel  strongly  enough,  and  I  never  feel  strongly 
enough  about  anything  until  afterwards.  You  know 
that.  Now,  that's  soon  enough  about  Bermuda  or 
a  house  in  the  country,  but  it's  too  late  in  marriage. 

[158] 


His  Life  and  Works 

So  IVe  just  called  it  off.  I've  written  her  a  note 
which  doesn't  exactly  explain  anything  but  some  day 
she'll  be  glad,  I  hope,  and  so  all  you  have  to  do  is  to 
make  her  feel  that  it's  all  right.  Somehow,  I  be 
lieve  she  will  understand.  Anyway,  I  don't  think 
she  will  be  surprised.  I'm  going  to  Africa  and,  if 
I  ever  have  an  address  again,  I'll  send  it  to  you. 

Peter. 


[1591 


Chapter  IX 

In  September,  1913,  I  found  myself  on  the  Paris- 
Milan  Express  on  my  way  to  Venice  to  meet  Edith 
Dale.  I  have  travelled  across  Switzerland  many 
times  and  I  hope  to  do  so  again  (the  view  from  the 
car-windows  is  magnificent),  but  I  shall  never  visit 
that  country.  God  keep  me  from  lingering  in  the 
mountains  or  by  the  shores  of  the  sea.  Such  im 
mensities  of  nature  strangle  talent  and  even  dwarf 
genius.  No  great  creative  work  has  ever  been  com 
posed  by  the  sea  or  in  the  shadow  of  a  mountain. 
In  the  presence  of  the  perpetual  mysteries  of  nature, 
man  feels  his  smallness.  There  are  those  who  may 
say  that  the  sky-scrapers  of  the  city  evoke  a  similar 
feeling,  but  man's  relation  to  these  is  not  the  same; 
he  knows  that  man  built  these  monster  structures 
and  that  man  will  tear  them  down  again.  Moun 
tains  and  the  sea  are  eternal.  Does  this  explain 
why  so  much  that  passes  for  art  in  America  comes 
from  Indiana  and  Illinois,  the  flat,  unimposing, 
monotonous  Middle  West? 

All  journeys,  I  suppose,  have  their  memorable  in 
cidents  and  episodes,  however  unimportant.  My 
sole  memory  of  this  particular  hegira  is  trifling. 
While  I  was  dining,  the  train  gave  a  lurch  or  a 
swerve,  hurling  me  with  my  plate  in  my  lap  to  the 
farthest  corner  of  the  car.  The  soup  which  the 

[160] 


His  Life  and  Works 

plate  contained  was  in  my  lap,  too,  and  elsewhere. 
Fortunately,  the  soup  was  not  too  hot.  The  accident 
recalled  how  once  in  a  French  drawing-room  I  had 
spilled  a  cup  of  calid  coffee  on  my  leg,  scorching  it 
painfully.  The  hostess  was  concerned  about  her 
carpet.  I  do  hope,  she  was  saying,  that  you  haven't 
spilled  your  co-flee  on  my  carpet.  I  had  not,  out 
my  leg  was  burned  so  badly  and  I  felt  so  outraged 
by  her  lack  of  sympathy,  that  I  took  occasion  later 
to  make  good  the  omission.  Another  night,  another 
year,  and  certainly  another  place,  a  celebrated  lady, 
next  to  whom  I  was  sitting  at  supper,  whisperingly 
adjured  me  to  upset  my  coffee  into  her  lap.  She 
was  wearing  a  new  and  elaborate  frock  and,  as 
tonished  by  her  unreasonable  request,  I  was  dilatory 
in  obeying.  She  whispered  again,  this  time  more 
sharply,  Do  as  I  tell  you!  At  last  I  obeyed  her, 
but  the  attempt  at  carelessness  must  have  seemed 
very  clumsy.  I  am  a  poor  actor.  Apologize,  was 
her  next  command.  Meekly,  I  followed  instructions. 
Now  she  spoke  aloud.  It  doesn't  matter  at  all,  she 
said.  It's  only  an  old  rag.  The  other  gentlemen 
present  condoled  with  her,  but  she  smilingly  put 
them  off,  Don't  make  the  boy  feel  bad.  It  wasn't 
his  fault.  Next  day,  while  I  lunched  with  her,  a 
great  many  boxes  arrived  from  Bendel's  and  Hick- 
son's.  Every  man  who  had  attended  the  supper 
had  bought  her  a  new  dress,  as  she  had  been  sure 
they  would ! 

Towards  nightfall,  we  approached  the  Italian  bor- 

[161] 


Peter  Whiffle 

der  and  after  we  had  passed  into  Italy,  the  compart 
ment,  which  had  been  crowded  all  day,  was  empty 
but  for  me  and  another  man.  As  he  was  a  Rouma 
nian,  who  spoke  neither  French  nor  English,  we  did 
not  converse.  About  8  o'clock,  we  lay  down  on  our 
respective  seats  and  tried  to  sleep.  It  was  nearly 
midnight  when  we  arrived  at  Milan  and  I  was  glad 
to  descend  from  the  train,  after  the  long  journey,  to 
take  a  few  hours  repose  at  a  hotel  near  the  station. 
Early  in  the  morning,  which  was  bright  and  sunny, 
I  departed  for  Venice. 

In  the  evening  of  that  day,  I  was  sitting  at  a  table 
in  the  garden  of  Bonvecchiati's  with  Edith,  who  had 
motored  down  from  Florence.  Since  the  night  I 
had  taken  Peter  to  her  house  in  Washington  Square, 
I  had  seen  her  only  for  fleeting  moments,  but  she 
bridged  the  months  immediately.  Peter  had  been 
correct  in  his  assumption  that  she  would  remember 
him.  In  fact,  one  of  the  first  questions  she  asked 
was: 

Where  is  that  boy  you  brought  to  my  house  the 
other  night? 

It  was  "the  other  night"  to  Edith;  months  and 
even  years  meant  nothing  to  her. 

Peter  Whiffle? 

Yes,  a  nice  boy.  I  liked  him.  Where  is  he? 
Let's  take  him  back  to  Florence  with  us. 

I  don't  know  where  he  is. 

Then  I  told  her  the  story  of  how  Peter  did  not 
get  married. 

[162] 


His  Life  and  Works 

I  knew  he  was  amusing.  Let's  get  in  touch  with 
his  vibrations  and  find  him. 

Edith,  indeed,  had  invented  her  own  kind  of  wire 
less  long  before  Marconi  came  along  with  his.  Dis 
tances,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  circumscribed  her  even 
less  than  time. 

Just  then,  she  saw  Constant  Lounsberry,  or  some 
one  else,  at  a  table  in  the  corner  of  the  garden  where 
we  were  dining  and  she  strolled  over  to  talk  with 
her.  Sipping  my  coffee  and  smoking  my  cigarette, 
I  recognized  a  familiar  voice  and  turned  to  see  Peter, 
with  his  mother,  about  to  claim  an  adjacent  table 
from  which  the  occupants  were  rising.  He  looked 
two  years  younger  than  he  had  four  months  before 
and  his  rather  pretty  mother  helped  to  confirm  the 
illusion.  Of  course,  I  joined  them  at  once  and  soon 
we  were  discussing  the  Italian  futurists,  the  compar 
ative  merits  of  spaghetti  and  risotto,  Lydia  Borelli, 
the  moving  pictures,  and  the  Marchesa  Casati,  who 
had  given  a  magnificent  festa  the  evening  previous, 
when,  clad  in  a  leopard's  pelt,  she  had  stood  on  the 
steps  of  her  palace,  and  greeted  her  guests  as  they 
approached  by  gondola  on  the  Canale  Grande.  Pe 
ter,  I  noted,  was  wearing  his  amethyst  intaglio  of 
Leda  and  the  Swan  on  the  little  finger  of  his  left 
hand.  After  a  time,  during  which,  for  a  brief  few 
moments,  the  conversation  drifted  towards  Toledo 
and  the  small  affairs  of  Mrs.  Whiffle,  he  told  me  his 
story. 

I  came  near  dying  in  Africa,  Carl,  surrounded  by 

[163] 


Peter  Whiffle 

niggers  and  fleas !  It  was  horrible.  Hot  as  a  New 
York  roof-garden  and  nearly  as  uncomfortable. 
There  I  lay,  rotting  with  a  nameless  fever,  no  one 
with  me  but  an  incompetent  Dutch  doctor,  who  was 
more  ignorant  of  the  nature  of  my  complaint  than  I 
was  myself,  and  a  half-naked  aboriginal,  who  wanted 
to  call  in  the  witch-doctor  and  who,  when  burked  in 
this  direction,  attempted  a  few  amateur  charms, 
which  at  least  had  the  merit  of  awakening  my  inter 
est.  There  I  lay  in  a  rude  thatched  hut  with  a  roof 
of  caked  cow-dung;  I  couldn't  eat,  drink,  or  speak. 
I  thought  it  was  the  end.  Funny,  but  the  only  sound 
that  reached  my  ears,  after  a  few  days,  was  the  chat 
tering  of  monkeys,  and  later  they  told  me  there  were 
no  monkeys  about  at  all. 

Over  my  head  on  the  wall,  hung  a  dirty  thonged 
whip.  Whether  its  purpose  was  to  beat  women  or 
oxen,  I  don't  know,  but,  you  will  remember,  per 
haps,  that  sometimes,  when  I  awaken  from  sleep  in 
the  middle  of  the  night,  I  have  a  strange  habit  of 
holding  one  arm  straight  up  in  the  air,  at  right 
angles  with  my  body.  Well,  while  I  was  ill,  there 
it  was,  most  of  the  time,  straight  up !  One  night, 
when  my  strength  was  fast  ebbing  away,  I  reached 
higher  and  grasped  the  whip.  Then  I  grew  drowsy; 
everything  seemed  to  turn  blood-red,  even  the  palm- 
leaves  that  waved  across  the  opening  made  by  the 
doorway  of  the  hut,  and  it  was  very  hot,  unspeakably 
roasting.  Now,  through  this  same  doorway, 
walked  a  woman  in  a  rusty  black  robe  and,  although 

[164] 


His  Life  and  Works 

I  knew  it  must  be  Death,  the  figure  confused  itself 
in  my  mind  with  Kathleen-ni-Houlihan  and  (will 
you  believe  it?)  Sara  Allgood!  Fancy  the  appear 
ance  of  Death  in  the  middle  of  Africa  suggesting  to 
me  the  character  of  an  Irish  play  and  the  actress  I 
had  seen  in  it !  There  followed  a  slight  pause,  dur 
ing  which  Death  stood  perfectly  still.  Then  two 
more  figures  entered  the  tiny  hut.  One  was  the 
Devil,  Ahriman,  Abaddon,  what  you  will;  I 
recognized  him  at  once,  he  was  so  likable  and,  be 
sides,  he  was  lame.  The  other,  I  gathered  after  a 
little  conversation,  was  an  emissary  from  heaven. 
Eblis  seated  himself  on  one  side  of  my  cot,  rest 
ing  his  crutches  against  the  wall,  and  Gabriel's  am 
bassador  stood  on  the  other  side.  Now  these  two 
droll  fellows  began  to  describe  the  climates  and 
amusements  of  heaven  and  hell  to  me,  each  speak 
ing  in  his  turn,  and  continually  interrupting  them 
selves  to  beg  me  to  decide  speedily  where  I  wanted 
to  go.  They  stated  frankly  that  they  had  not  any 
too  much  time,  as  they  had  several  other  visits  to 
make  before  dinner  in  various  parts  of  the  world. 
The  Angel  polished  his  feathers  with  a  small  hat- 
brush  and  the  Devil  seemed  to  be  taking  good  care 
of  his  nails,  in  default  of  the  opportunity  to  visit  a 
manicure.  Death  stood  immovable,  inexorable. 
Imagine,  even  in  her  presence,  I  had  to  make  up  my 
mind  where  I  wanted  to  go.  It  was  a  terrible  ex 
perience,  I  can  tell  you !  It  was  as  if  she  were  saying, 
Hurry  now,  hurry  now!  Nine  minutes  more. 

[165] 


Peter  Whiffle 

Only,  of  course,  she  did  not  utter  a  single  word. 
The  Angel  and  the  Devil  were  too  silly.  Had  they 
been  silent,  it  would  have  been  so  much  easier  for 
me  to  decide.  My  mind  would  just  be  wavering  in 
a  certain  direction,  when  one  of  the  supernatural 
visitors  would  put  me  completely  out  with  a  warning 
about  his  rival's  domain  and  a  word  of  enthusiasm 
for  his  own.  Never  have  I  suffered  such  agony. 
I  could  not  decide  whether  to  go  to  Paradise  or 
Pandemonium.  My  perplexity  grew  as  they  ar 
gued.  Meantime,  it  was  obvious  that  I  was 
keeping  Death  from  other  bedsides.  I  could  see 
that  she  was  becoming  nervous  and  irritable, 
shifting  first  on  one  foot,  then  on  the  other. 
It  was  evidently  very  irksome  to  her  that  she 
had  taken  a  vow  of  silence.  In  life,  it  is  so 
easy;  there  is  always  something  else  to  do.  But,  in 
death,  Carl,  there  is  a  single  alternative;  at  least,  it 
seemed  so  to  me  for  an  unconscionable  space  of 
time.  Suddenly,  however,  two  ideas  occurred  to 
me :  I  remembered  that  I  had  read  somewhere  that 
demon  and  deity  were  originally  derived  from  the 
same  root:  in  that  case,  one  place  would  be  as  bad 
or  as  good  as  the  other;  and  I  remembered  my  solu 
tion  of  the  Bermuda  problem:  I  could  stay  where  I 
was.  /  was  not  compelled  to  go  anywhere. 
Stretching  up  my  hands,  I  pulled  hard  on  the  whip, 
which  must  have  broken  loose  from  the  nail,  because 
when  I  came  out  of  my  coma,  the  thongs  were 
gripped  tightly  in  my  hand,  lying  on  the  blanket. 

[166] 


His  Life  and  Works 

Peter  concluded  his  story  and,  suddenly,  with 
that  delightful  inconsequence,  which  contributed  so 
definite  a  charm  to  his  manner,  he  pointed  to  a 
woman  in  the  crowd. 

She  resembles  an  ostrich  and  she  is  dressed  like  a 
peacock,  he  said. 

Peter,  I  wish  you  wouldn't  jest  about  death  and 
holy  things,  interjected  Mrs.  Whiffle,  on  whose  lit 
eral  mind  the  tale  had  evidently  clawed  as  an  eagle 
claws  the  brain  of  a  cat. 

But,  mother,  Peter  tried  to  mollify  her,  I  am  not 
jesting.  I  am  telling  you  something  that  happened. 

Something  that  you  thought  had  happened,  Mrs. 
Whiffle  corrected,  but  we  should  only  think  good 
thoughts.  We  should  keep  the  dark  ones  out  of 
our  minds,  especially  when  they  interfere  and  con 
flict  with  the  powerful  words  of  Almighty  God,  our 
Creator. 

I'm  sorry,  mother,  I  won't  tell  it  again,  he  said, 
simply.  Then,  after  a  nibble  or  two  at  a  lobster, 
he  turned  to  me,  Mother  is  going  to  America  to 
morrow.  I  shall  be  alone.  Have  you  been  to  the 
Austrian  Tyrol?  There's  Russia,  of  course,  and 
Spain,  and  those  islands  where  Synge  used  to  go. 
Where  are  they?  And  Bucharest.  Carlo,  will  you 
go  with  me  tomorrow  to  Buenos  Ayres  or  Helsing- 
fors? 

You  are  not  to  be  told  where  you  are  going,  I  re 
plied,  but  you  are  going  with  me. 

Experience  has  taught  me  that  people  with  prin* 

[167] 


Peter  Whiffle 

ciples  are  invariably  unreasonable.  Peter  had  no 
principles  and  therefore  he  was  reasonable.  So 
the  next  day,  he  really  did  drive  back  with  us  to 
Florence,  through,  the  pleasant  olive  groves  and 
vineyards.  A  Jeroboam  of  chianti  enlivened  the 
journey,  and  Edith  adored  the  story  of  Peter's  en 
counter  with  Death,  the  Devil,  and  the  Angel. 

The  Villa  Allegra  is  set  on  the  hills  of  Arcetri, 
high  above  the  long  cypress-bordered  avenue  called 
the  Stradone  del  Poggio  Imperiale.  The  villa  is  so 
artfully  concealed  amongst  the  cunningly-grouped, 
gnarled  olive  trees,  eucalypti,  myrtles,  plane-trees, 
laurels,  pepper-trees,  and  rows  of  cypresses,  that, 
until  you  are  in  the  very  courtyard,  you  are  unaware 
of  its  propinquity,  although,  by  some  curious  para 
dox,  the  view  from  the  loggia  commands  the  sur 
rounding  country.  The  lovely  curve  of  the  facade 
has  been  attributed  to  the  hand  of  Raphael,  and 
Brunelleschi  is  said  to  have  designed  the  cortile,  for 
the  physician  of  the  Medici  once  inhabited  this  coun 
try  house,  but  the  completely  successful  loggia  and 
the  great  salone  were  added  by  Chester  Dale. 

Peter  had  never  been  in  Florence  before;  no  more 
had  I;  so  the  romantic  charm  of  this  lovely  old 
house  in  the  mountains  served  to  occupy  us  for  sev 
eral  days.  We  inspected  the  sunken  Roman  bath 
and  were  thrilled  by  the  rope-ladder,  which,  when 
lowered  through  a  trap-door,  connected  a  chamber 
on  the  second  storey  with  a  room  on  the  first.  We 
were  satisfied  to  sit  in  the  evening  under  the  red 

[168] 


His  Life  and  Works 

brocaded  walls,  illuminated  by  wax  tapers  set  in  gi 
randoles  of  green  and  rose  faience,  to  stroll  in  the 
gardens,  to  gaze  off  towards  the  distant  hills  from 
the  loggia.  Edith  entertained  us  with  long  ac 
counts  of  the  visits  of  the  spectre,  the  dame  blanche 
who  haunted  the  house.  It  was,  if  the  servants  who 
swore  they  had  seen  her  were  to  be  believed,  the 
spirit  of  an  elderly  maiden  lady  who  had  died  there. 
In  life,  it  seems,  she  had  been  of  a  jealous  disposi 
tion  and  had  tried  to  make  the  villa  uncomfortable 
for  other  guests.  She  was  not  successful  in  this 
effort  until  she  died,  and  not  altogether  successful 
even  then,  for  there  were  those  who  refused  to  be 
terrified  by  the  persistent  presence  of  this  spinster 
eidolon,  which  manifested  itself  in  various  ways. 
Others,  however,  resembled  Madame  de  Stael, 
who  did  not  believe  in  ghosts  but  was  afraid  of 
them. 

In  the  mornings,  Peter  and  I  breakfasted  to 
gether  in  the  garden,  whither  was  borne  us  by  the 
cynical  butler  a  tray  with  individual  coffee  percola 
tors,  a  plate  of  fresh  rolls,  and  a  bowl  of  honey. 
The  peacocks  strutted  the  terrace  and  the  breeze 
blew  the  branches  of  the  fragrant  gardenias  across 
our  noses.  In  the  distance,  the  bells  of  Florence 
softly  tolled.  In  the  afternoon,  the  distant  hills  be 
came  purple  and,  in  the  evening,  the  atmosphere  was 
tinged  with  green.  The  peasants  sang  in  the  road 
below  and  the  nightingales  sang  in  the  olive  copse, 
lamps  flickered  on  the  tables  and  Strega,  the 

[169] 


Peter  Whiffle 

golden  witch-liquid,  stood  in  our  tiny  crumpled 
Venetian  tumblers,  their  distorted  little  bellies 
flecked  with  specks  of  gold.  There  were  occasional 
callers  but  no  other  resident  guests  than  our 
selves  at  the  villa  and  Edith,  as  was  her  custom, 
left  us  a  good  deal  alone.  On  the  day  of  our  ar 
rival,  indeed,  she  disappeared  after  luncheon  and 
only  returned  two  days  later,  when  she  explained 
that  she  had  gone  to  visit  a  friend  at  Pisa.  We 
usually  met  her  at  dinner  when  she  came  out  to  the 
garden-table,  floating  in  white  crepe  de  chine,  with 
a  turban  of  turquoise  blue  or  some  vivid  brilliant 
green,  but  during  the  day  she  was  seldom  visible. 
She  ate  her  breakfast  alone  on  the  balcony  above 
our  bedroom,  then  read  for  an  hour  or  two.  What 
she  did  after,  one  never  knew,  save  as  she  told  of  it. 
Meanwhile,  Peter  and  I  wandered  about,  inspect 
ing  the  shops  on  the  Ponte  Vecchio,  tramping 
through  the  old  palaces  and  galleries.  Several 
times  Peter  paused;  he  hesitated  for  the  longest 
time,  I  think,  before  the  David  of  Donatello,  that 
exquisite  soft  bronze  of  the  Biblical  lad,  nude  but 
for  his  wreathed  helmet,  standing  in  his  adolescent 
slender  beauty  with  one  foot  on  the  head  of  the  de 
capitated  giant.  He  carries  a  sword  and  over  his 
face  flutters  a  quizzical  expression.  Indeed,  what 
Walter  Pater  said  of  the  face  of  Monna  Lisa  might 
equally  well  apply  to  the  face  of  David.  So  re 
marked  Peter,  explaining  that  the  quality  of  both 
the  David  and  Leonardo's  darling  was  the  same, 

[170] 


His  Life  and  Works 

both  possessed  a  compelling  charm,  and  it  was  the 
charm  of  David  which  had  slain  the  ugly  giant,  just 
as  charm  always  kills  ugliness.  And  he  swore  that 
this  was  the  most  beautiful  object  that  the  hand  of 
man  had  yet  created,  an  art  expression  which 
reached  its  emotional  and  intellectual  zenith,  and 
then  he  spoke  of  the  advantage  that  sculpture  en 
joyed  over  painting. 

One  tires  of  a  painting.  It  is  always  the  same. 
There  is  never  anything  new  in  it.  But  with  a 
statue,  every  different  light  gives  it  a  novel  value, 
and  it  can  be  turned  around.  When  you  tire  of  one 
aspect,  you  try  another.  That  is  why  statues  be 
long  in  houses  and  pictures  belong  in  museums. 
You  can  visit  the  museum  when  you  wish  to  look. at 
a  picture,  but  it  is  impossible  to  live  with  a  picture, 
because  it  is  always  the  same.  You  can  kill  any  pic 
ture,  even  a  picture  by  Velazquez,  by  hanging  it  on 
your  own  wall,  for  in  a  few  days  it  becomes  a  com 
monplace  to  you,  a  habit,  and  at  last  one  day  you  do 
not  look  at  it  any  more,  you  scarcely  are  aware  that 
it  is  there  at  all,  and  you  are  surprised  when  your 
friends  speak  of  it,  speak  of  it  admiringly.  Yes,  you 
say,  unconvinced,  it  is  beautiful.  But  you  do  not  be 
lieve  it.  On  the  other  hand,  a  statue  is  new  every 
day.  Every  passing  cloud  in  the  sky,  every  shifting 
of  the  location  of  a  lamp,  gives  a  new  value  to  a 
statue,  and  when  you  tire  of  seeing  it  in  the  house, 
you  can  transfer  it  to  the  garden  where  it  begins 
another  avatar. 


Peter  Whiffle 

Leaving  David  behind  us,  we  walked  down  the 
long,  marble,  fourteenth  century  stairway  of  the  Pa 
lazzo  del  Podesta,  into  the  magnificent  court  embel 
lished  with  the  armorial  bearings  of  the  old  chief 
magistrates,  out  to  the  Via  del  Proconsolo,  on 
through  the  winding  streets  to  the  Palazzo  Ric- 
cardi,  where  Peter  again  paused  before  the  frescoes 
of  Benozzo  Gozzoli.  The  Gifts  of  the  Magi  is  the 
general  title  but  Gozzoli,  according  to  a  pleasant 
custom  of  his  epoch,  has  painted  the  Medici  on  a 
hunting  expedition,  the  great  Lorenzo  on  a  white 
charger,  with  a  spotted  leopard  at  its  heels,  falcons 
on  the  wrists  of  his  brilliant  attendants,  a  long  train 
of  lovely  boys,  in  purple  and  mulberry  and  blue  and 
green  and  gold,  the  colours  as  fresh,  perhaps,  as  the 
day  they  were  painted.  The  most  beautiful  room  in 
the  world,  Peter  exclaimed,  this  little  oratory  about 
the  size  of  a  cubicle  at  Oxford,  painted  by  candle 
light,  for  until  recently,  there  was  no  window  in 
the  room,  and  I  believed  him.  I  am  not  sure  but, 
belike,  I  believe  him  still.  Then  Peter  loved  the 
walk  in  that  gallery  which  connects  the  Pitti  Palace 
with  the  Uffizi,  a  long  narrow  gallery  which  runs 
over  the  shops  of  the  Ponte  Vecchio  (was  ever  an 
other  bridge  so  richly  endowed  with  artistic  and 
commercial  interest?),  where  hang  the  old  portraits 
of  the  families  who  have  reigned  in  Florence,  and 
some  others.  Quaint  old  canvases,  they  are,  by 
artists  long  forgotten  and  of  people  no  longer  re 
membered,  but  more  interesting  to  Peter  and  me 

[172] 


His  Life  and  Works 

than  the  famous  Botticellis  and  Bellinis  and  Gior- 
giones  which  crowded  the  walls  of  the  galleries. 
As  we  stood  before  them,  Peter  imagined  tales  of 
adventure  and  romance  to  suit  the  subjects,  pinning 
his  narratives  to  the  expression  of  a  face,  the  style 
of  a  sleeve,  the  embroidery  of  a  doublet,  or  to  some 
accompanying  puppet  or  pet,  some  ill-featured 
hunch-back  dwarf. 

Thus  the  days  passed  and  Peter  became  dreamy 
and  wistful  and  the  charm  of  his  spirit,  I  believe, 
was  never  before  so  poignant,  for  his  chameleon 
soul  had  taken  on  the  hue  of  the  renaissance  and  its 
accompanying  spirituality,  the  spirituality  of  the  art 
ist,  the  happy  working  artist  contriving  works  of 
genius.  He  could  have  perfectly  donned  the  cos 
tume  of  the  cinquecento,  for  the  revolutionary  Pe 
ter  of  New  York,  the  gay,  faun-like  Peter  of  Paris, 
had  disappeared,  and  a  Peter  of  reveries  and 
dreams  had  usurped  their  place. 

Never  have  I  been  so  happy,  he  said  to  me  on  one 
of  these  days,  as  I  am  now.  This  is  true  beauty,  the 
beauty  of  spirit,  art  which  has  nothing  to  do  with 
life,  which,  indeed,  makes  you  forget  the  existence  of 
life.  Of  course,  however,  this  is  of  no  help  to  the 
contemporary  artist.  Confronted,  on  every  hand, 
with  perfection,  he  must  lay  down  his  chisel  or  his 
brush  or  his  pen.  Great  art  can  never  flourish 
here  again.  That  is  why  Browning's  poetry  about 
Florence  is  so  bad;  why  Ouida,  perhaps  a  lesser  ar 
tist,  succeeded  where  Browning  failed.  This  is  the 

[173] 


Peter  Whiffle 

ideal  spot  in  which  to  idle,  to  dream,  even  to  think, 
but  no  work  is  possible  here  and  that,  perhaps,  is  why 
I  love  Florence  so  much.  I  feel  that  I  could  remain 
here  always  and,  if  I  did  I  should  do  nothing,  noth 
ing,  that  is,  but  drink  my  coffee  and  eat  my  rolls  and 
honey  in  the  morning,  gaze  across  to  the  hills  and 
dream,  stroll  over  the  wondrous  Ponte  Santa 
Trinita,  which  connects  us  so  gracefully  with  the  Via 
Tornabuoni,  wonder  how  Ghirlandaio  achieved  the 
naive  charm  of  the  frescoes  in  the  choir  of  Santa 
Maria  Novella,  nothing  else  but  these  things.  And, 
of  course,  I  should  always  avoid  the  Piazza  Vittorio 
Emanuele. 

But  he  had  scarcely  uttered  the  name  before  he 
determined  that  he  must  drink  some  beer  and  so  we 
strolled  across  the  Piazza,  on  which  he  had  just 
placed  a  malison,  into  the  Giubbe  Rosse,  full  of 
Americans  writing  letters,  and  Swedes  and  Ger 
mans,  reading  their  native  papers.  We  sat  down 
at  a  table  just  outside  the  door  and  asked  one  of  the 
red-coats,  whose  scarlet  jackets  give  this  place  its 
cant  name,  to  bring  us  two  steins  of  Mimchener. 
Then  came  an  anachronism,  one  of  those  anachro 
nisms  so  unusual  in  Florence  which,  more  than  any 
other  city,  is  all  of  a  piece.  A  stage-coach,  such  a 
coach  as  one  sees  in  old  England,  drawn  by  four 
horses,  drove  gaily  through  the  square.  The  inte 
rior  seemed  empty  but  on  the  top  sat  several  English 
girls  in  sprigged  muslins,  a  few  pale  youths,  and  a 

[174] 


His  Life  and  Works 

hatless  man  with  very  long  hair,  who  was  clad  in 
olive-green  velvet. 

Who  is  it?  I  asked  a  man  at  a  neighbouring  table. 

And  the  reply  came,  That  is  Gordon  Craig  and 
his  school. 

A  few  days  later,  Peter  encountered  Papini,  that 
strange  and  very  ugly  youth,  who  mingled  his 
dreams  and  his  politics,  mixing  mysticism  and  propa 
ganda  until  one  became  uncertain  whether  he  was 
seer  or  socialist,  and  Marinetti.  He  read  Mafarka 
le  Futuriste  and  Marinetti  talked  to  him  about  war 
and  vaudeville,  noise  and  overthrow,  excitement  and 
destruction.  Bomb  the  palaces  and  build  factories 
where  they  stood!  So  Marinetti  enjoined  his  fol 
lowers.  Whatever  is  today  is  art;  whatever  was 
yesterday  is  nothing,  worse  than  nothing,  refuse, 
manure.  Peter  was  especially  amused  by  Mari- 
netti's  war  cry,  Meprisez  la  femme !  his  banishment 
of  the  nude  and  adultery  from  art,  which  was  to  be 
come  entirely  male.  So,  indeed,  was  life,  for  Mar 
inetti  exhorted  his  male  disciples  to  bear  their  own 
children !  All  these  ideas,  Peter  repeated  to  me  in 
a  dreamy,  veiled  voice,  noting  at  the  same  time  that 
one  of  Marinetti's  arms  was  longer  than  the  other. 
It  did  not  seem  quite  the  proper  environment  to 
carry  on  in  this  respect,  but  the  words  of  the  Italian 
futurist  had  indubitably  made  an  impression.  I 
could  see  that  it  was  quite  likely  that  Peter  would 
become  a  Marinettist  when  he  went  back  to  New 
York. 

[175] 


Peter  Whiffle 

At  dinner,  one  night,  it  became  apparent  that 
Peter  once  more  was  considering  his  life  work.  One 
of  the  guests,  a  contessa  with  a  florid  face  and  an 
ample  bosom,  began  to  fulminate: 

Art  is  magic.  Art  is  a  formula.  Once  master  a 
formula  and  you  can  succeed  in  expressing  yourself. 
Barrie  has  a  formula.  Shaw  has  a  formula.  Even 
George  Cohan  has  a  formula.  Black  magic,  ne- 
gromancy,  that's  what  it  is:  the  eye  of  a  newt,  the 
beak  of  a  raven,  herbs  gathered  at  certain  hours, 
the  heart  of  a  black  cat,  boiled  in  a  pot  together, 
call  up  the  bright  devils  to  do  your  bidding. 

Art  is  a  protest,  corrected  Mina  Loy.  Each  art 
ist  is  protesting  against  something:  Hardy,  against 
life  itself;  Shaw,  against  shams;  Flaubert,  against 
slipshod  workmanship;  George  Moore,  against 
prudery;  Cunninghame  Graham,  against  civili 
zation;  Arthur  Machen,  against  reality;  Theodore 
Dreiser,  against  style.  .  .  . 

Never  did  I  feel  less  sure  of  the  meaning  of  art 
than  I  do  here,  surrounded  by  it,  began  Peter,  al 
though  I  have  never  been  more  conscious  of  it,  more 
susceptible  to  real  beauty,  more  lulled  by  its  magic. 
Yet  I  do  not  understand  its  meaning.  It  does  not 
help  me  to  work  out  my  own  problems.  The  trails 
cross.  For  instance,  here  is  Edith  leading  her  own 
life;  here  are  we  all  leading  our  own  lives,  as  re 
mote  as  possible  from  Donatello  and  Gozzoli. 
Here  is  Gordon  Craig,  dressed  like  Bunthorne,  driv 
ing  a  stage-coach  and  sending  out  arcane  but  thun- 

[176] 


His  Life  and  Works 

dering  manifestos  against  a  theatre  in  which  his 
mother  and  Eleanora  Duse  are  such  conspicuous 
examples;  here  is  -Papini  working  and  dreaming; 
here  is  Marinetti  shooting  off  fire-crackers;  here  are 
the  Braggiottis,  teaching  young  Americans  the  ele 
ments  of  music  in  that  modern  music-room  with  bas- 
relief  portraits  of  the  great  composers,  Beethoven, 
Bach,  Verdi,  Mozart,  Wagner,  Rossini  .  .  .  and 
Sebastian  B.  Schlesinger,  moulded  in  the  frieze. 
Here  is  Loeser,  always  building  new  houses  and 
never  completing  them;  here  is  Arthur  Acton,  with  a 
chauffeur  who  sings  tenor  arias  in  the  drawing-room 
after  dinner;  here  is  Leo  Stein,  collecting  Renoirs 
and  Cezannes  for  his  villa  at  Settignano.  What 
does  it  all  mean,  unless  it  means  that  everything 
should  be  scrambled  together?  I  think  a  great 
book  might  be  written  if  everything  the  hero 
thought  and  felt  and  observed  could  be  put  into  it. 
You  know  how,  in  the  old  novel,  only  what  is  ob 
viously  essential  to  the  plot  or  the  development  of 
character  is  selected.  But  a  man,  crossing  a  street 
to  commit  a  murder,  does  not  continuously  think  of 
the  murder.  The  cry  of  Buns !  hot  cross  buns !  the 
smell  of  onions  or  dead  fish,  the  sight  of  a  pretty 
woman,  impress  his  senses  and  remind  him  of  still 
other  things.  These  ideas,  impressions,  objects, 
should  all  be  set  down.  Nothing  should  be  omitted, 
nothing!  One  might  write  a  whole  book  of  two 
hundred  thousand  words  about  the  events  of  an 
hour.  And  what  a  book!  What  a  book! 

FI77] 


Peter  Whiffle 

This  was  before  the  day  of  Dorothy  Richardson, 
James  Joyce,  and  Marcel  Proust.  The  contessa 
snorted.  Mina  Loy,  at  the  other  end  of  the  table, 
looked  interested  in  Peter  for  the  first  time,  I 
thought.  The  white  Persian  cat,  one  of  Edith's  cats, 
with  his  superb  porcelain-blue  eyes,  sauntered  into 
the  room,  his  tail  raised  proudly.  Edith  spoke: 

The  great  artists  put  themselves  into  their  work; 
the  cat  never  does.  Men  like  Stieglitz  and  de 
Meyer  put  themselves  into  their  cameras,  that  is 
why  their  photographs  are  wonderful,  but  the  cat 
never  puts  himself  into  a  camera.  The  great  con 
querors  put  themselves  into  their  actions;  the  cat 
never  does.  Lovers  put  themselves  into  the  selves 
of  their  loved  ones,  seeking  identity;  the  cat  never 
does.  Mystics  try  to  lose  themselves  in  union  with 
their  gods;  the  cat  never  does.  Musicians  put 
themselves  into  their  instruments;  the  cat  never 
does.  Indian  men,  working  in  the  ground,  put 
themselves  in  the  earth,  in  order  to  get  themselves 
back  in  the  forms  of  wheat  or  maize  to  nourish 
their  bodies;  the  cat  never  does.  Navajo  women, 
when  they  weave  blankets,  go  so  completely  into  the 
blanket  while  they  are  working  on  it,  that  they  al 
ways  leave  a  path  in  the  weaving  that  comes  out 
at  the  last  corner  for  their  souls  to  get  out  of  the 
blanket;  otherwise  they  would  be  imprisoned  in  it. 
The  cat  never  does  things  like  this! 

So  every  one  really  centres  his  self  somewhere 

[178] 


His  Life  and  Works 

outside  of  himself;  every  one  gets  out  of  his  body. 
The  cat  never  does.  Every  one  has  a  false  centre. 
Only  the  cat — the  feline — has  a  true  centredness 
inside  himself.  Dogs  and  other  animals  centre 
themselves  in  people  and  are  therefore  open  to  in 
fluence.  The  cat  stays  at  home  inside  his  body  and 
can  never  be  influenced. 

Every  one  has  always  worked  magic  through 
these  false  centres — doing  things  to  himself — seek 
ing  outlets,  seeking  expression,  seeking  power,  all  of 
which  are  only  temporarily  satisfactory  like  a  move 
ment  of  the  bowels,  which  is  all  it  amounts  to  on 
the  psychic  plane.  The  cat  is  magic,  is  himself,  1*5 
power.  The  cat  knows  how  to  live,  staying  as  he 
does  inside  his  own  body,  for  that  is  the  only  place 
where  he  can  live!  That  is  the  only  place  where 
he  can  experience  being  here  and  now. 

Of  course,  all  the  false-centred  people  have  a 
kind  of  magic  power,  for  any  centredness  is  power, 
but  it  doesn't  last  and  it  doesn't  satisfy  them.  Art 
has  been  the  greatest  deceiver  of  all — the  better  the 
art,  the  greater  the  deception.  It  isn't  necessary 
to  objectify  or  express  experience.  What  IS  neces 
sary  IS  to  be.  The  cat  knows  this.  May  be,  that  is 
why  the  cat  has  been  an  object  of  worship;  may  be, 
the  ancients  felt  intuitively  that  the  cat  had  the  truth 
in  him. 

Do  you  see  where  these  reflections  lead?  The 
whole  world  is  wildly  pursuing  a  mirage;  only  the 
cat  is  at  home,  so  to  speak. 

[179] 


Peter  Whiffle 

Actors  understand  this.  They  only  get  a  sense 
of  reality  when  they  throw  themselves  into  a  part. 
...  a  false  centre. 

The  cat  understands  pure  being,  which  is  all  we 
need  to  know  and  which  it  takes  us  a  lifetime  to 
learn.  It  is  both  subject  and  object.  It  is  its  own 
outlet  and  its  own  material.  It  is.  All  the  rest  of 
us  are  divided  bits  of  self,  some  here,  some  there. 
The  cat  has  a  complete  subjective  unity.  Being  its 
own  centre,  it  radiates  electricity  in  all  directions. 
It  is  magnetic  and  impervious.  I  have  known  people 
to  keep  a  cat  so  that  they  could  stroke  the  electricity 
out  of  it.  Why  didn't  they  know  how  to  be  electric 
as  the  cat  IS?  The  cat  is  the  fine  specimen  of  the  I 
am.  Who  of  us  is  so  fully  the  I  am  that  I  am? 

Look  around  the  world!  Everybody  putting 
himself  out  in  some  form  or  another!  Why?  It 
doesn't  do  any  good.  At  the  end  you  exhaust  the 
possibilities  of  the  outside  world — geographically 
and  spiritually.  You  can  use  up  the  external.  You 
can  come  to  the  end  of  objectifying  and  objectives, 
and  then  what?  In  the  end,  only  what  we  started 
with — the  Self  in  the  body,  the  Self  at  home,  where 
it  was  all  the  time  while  bits  of  it  were  wandering 
outside. 

Peter  applauded  with  sundry  bravos  and  benisons 
and  divers  amens,  but  was  moved  to  ask,  Does 
the  cat  know  this?  Has  the  cat  got  a  conscious 
being?  Does  he  appreciate  his  advantage? 

[180] 


His  Life  and  Works 

But  no  one  answered  these  questions,  least  of  all 
the  haughty  white  Persian. 

Apparently  unreasonably  (this  biography  was  as 
far  from  my  mind  as  anything  well  could  be),  fol 
lowing  a  habit  which  I  never  could  explain  to  myself 
until  I  became  a  professional  writer  and  the  reason 
became  clear,  before  going  to  bed,  I  made  notes  on 
this  and  several  subsequent  evenings  and  it  is  upon 
these  notes  that  I  am  drawing  now,  to  refresh  my 
memory.  A  few  nights  later,  when  Edith  and  Pe 
ter  and  I  were  sitting  alone  on  the  loggia,  Peter 
talked  to  us  about  the  critics. 

The  trouble  with  the  critics,  he  was  saying,  is  that 
they  are  not  contradictory  enough.  They  stick  to  a 
theory  for  better  or  worse,  as  unwise  men  stick  to 
an  unwise  marriage.  Once  they  have  exploited  a 
postulate  about  art  or  about  an  artist,  they  make 
all  his  work  conform  to  this  postulate,  if  they  ad 
mire  it.  On  the  other  hand,  if  the  work  of  an  art 
ist  displeases  them,  they  use  the  postulate  as  a  ham 
mer.  I  think  it  is  Oscar  Wilde  who  has  written, 
Only  mediocre  minds  are  consistent.  There  is  some 
thing  very  profound  in  this  aphorism. 

Consider  Frank  Harris's  Shakespeare  theory,  for 
example.  It  is  good  enough  as  an  idea,  as  a  casual 
inspiration  it  is  almost  a  masterpiece.  It  would 
make  a  fine  essay;  if  it  had  been  used  as  a  passing 
reference  in  a  book,  it  probably  would  have  been 
quoted  for  years.  Harris,  however,  has  spun  it 
out  into  two  thick  volumes  and  made  it  fit  into  crev- 

[181] 


Peter  Whiffle 

ices  and  crannies  where  it  cannot  very  well  feel  at 
home.  Certainly,  it  is  true  that  any  artist  creates 
his  characters  out  of  his  own  virtues  and  weaknesses; 
all  of  a  novelists'  characters,  to  a  certain  extent,  re 
flect  phases  of  himself.  The  mistake  Harris  has 
made  lies  in  identifying  Shakespeare  only  with  his 
weak,  unsuccessful,  sentimental,  disappointed,  un 
happy  characters,  such  as  Hamlet,  Macbeth,  Or- 
sino,  Antonio,  and  Romeo.  Shakespeare  probably 
was  just  as  much  Sir  Toby  Belch  and  Falstaff. 
Curiously,  this  theory  of  identification  fits  the 
critic  himself,  the  intellectual  creator,  more  snugly 
than  it  does  the  romancer,  the  emotional  crea 
tor.  Remy  de  Gourmont  has  pointed  this  out. 
He  says,  Criticism  is  perhaps  the  most  suggestive 
of  literary  forms;  it  is  a  perpetual  confession;  be 
lieving  to  analyze  the  works  of  others,  the  critic 
unveils  and  exposes  himself  to  the  public.  So  from 
these  books  we  may  learn  more  about  Frank  Harris 
than  we  do  about  Shakespeare. *  This,  of  course, 
has  its  value. 

But  that  is  why  Shakespeare  is  greater  than  his 
critics,  that  is  greater  than  the  critics  who  cling  to 
one  theory.  Shakespeare  speaks  only  through  his 
characters  and  he  can  say,  or  make  some  one  say, 

Frailty,  thy  name  is  woman, 
but  on  the  next  page  another  character  may  deny 

1  In  a  later  book,  his  biography  of  Oscar  Wilde,  Frank  Harris 
tells  us  more  about  himself  than  he  does  about  Wilde.    C.  V.  V. 

[182] 


His  Life  and  Works 

this  sentiment,  for  this  is  not  Shakespeare's  opinion, 
it  is  that  of  an  incensed  lover.  So  Richard  III  re 
marks  : 

Conscience  is  but  a  word  the  cowards  use, 
Devised  at  first  to  keep  the  strong  in  awe. 

But  Hamlet  replies : 

Thus  conscience  does  make  cowards  of  us  all. 

Both  are  true,  both  good  philosophy,  and  so  from 
the  playwright,  the  great  poet,  the  novelist,  you  get 
a  rounded  view  of  life  which  a  critic  usually  denies 
you. 

Occasionally  a  critic  does  contradict  himself  and 
really  becomes  human  and  delightful  and  we  take 
him  to  our  hearts,  but  the  next  day  all  the  doctors 
and  professors  and  pundits  are  excoriating  him,  as 
suring  us  that  he  is  not  consistent,  that  he  is  a  loose 
writer,  etc.  Good  critics,  I  should  like  to  believe, 
are  always  loose  writers;  they  perpetually  contra 
dict  themselves;  their  work  is  invariably  palinodal. 
How,  otherwise,  can  they  strive  for  vision,  and  how 
can  they  inspire  vision  in  the  reader  without  striv 
ing  for  vision  themselves?  Good  critics  should 
grope  and,  if  they  must  define,  they  should  con 
stantly  contradict  their  own  definitions.  In  this 
way,  in  time,  a  certain  understanding  might  be 
reached.  For  instance,  how  delightful  of  Anatole 
France  to  describe  criticism  as  a  soul's  adventures 
among  masterpieces,  and  then  to  devote  his  critical 

[183] 


Peter  Whiffle 

pen  to  minor  poets  and  unimportant  eighteenth  cen 
tury  figures. 

But,  asked  Edith,  does  not  the  reader  in  his  own 
mind  contradict  the  consistent  critic?  Does  not  this 
answer  your  purpose? 

By  no  means.  What  you  say  is  quite  true.  A 
dogmatic  writer  rouses  a  spirit  of  contradiction  in 
the  reader,  but  this  is  often  a  spirit  of  ire,  of  deep 
resentment.  That  is  in  itself,  assuredly,  something, 
but  it  is  not  the  whole  purpose  of  criticism  to  arouse 
anger,  whatever  the  prima  donna  who  reads  the 
papers  the  morning  after  her  debut  at  the  Opera 
may  think.  Criticism  should  open  channels  of 
thought  and  not  close  them;  it  should  stimulate  the 
soul  and  not  revolt  it.  And  criticism  can  only  be 
wholesome  and  sane  and  spiritually  stimulating 
when  it  is  contradictory.  I  do  not  mean  to  say  that 
a  critic  should  never  dogmatize —  I  suppose  at  this 
moment  I  myself  appear  to  be  dogmatizing!  He 
may  be  as  dogmatic  as  he  pleases  for  a  page  or 
two  pages,  but  it  is  unsafe  to  base  an  entire  book 
on  a  single  idea  and  it  is  still  more  unsafe  to 
reflect  this  idea  in  one's  next  book.  It  is  better 
to  turn  the  leaf  and  begin  afresh  on  a  new  page. 
Artists  are  never  consistent.  Ibsen  apparently 
wrote  A  Doll's  House  to  prove  that  the  truth  should 
always  be  told  to  one's  nearest  and  dearest  and, 
apparently,  he  wrote  The  Wild  Duck  to  prove 
that  it  should  not.  Ibsen,  you  see,  was  a  poet  anf 
he  knew  that  both  his  theses  were  true.  In  his  at- 

[184] 


His  Life  and  Works 

tempt  to  explain  the  revolutionary  doctrines  which 
he  found  inherent  in  Wagner's  Ring,  Bernard  Shaw 
ran  across  many  snags.  He  swam  through  the 
Rheingold,  rode  triumphantly  through  Die  Wal- 
kiire,  even  clambered  gaily  through  Siegfried,  by 
making  the  hero  a  protestant,  but  when  he  reached 
Gotterdammerung,  his  hobby-horse  bucked  and 
threw  him.  Shaw  was  forced  to  admit  that  Gott 
erdammerung  was  pure  opera,  and  he  attempted 
to  evade  the  difficulty  by  explaining  that  Wagner 
wrote  the  book  for  this  work  before  he  wrote  the 
other  three,  quite  forgetting  that,  if  Wagner's  in 
tention  had  been  the  creation  of  a  revolutionary 
cycle,  it  would  have  been  entirely  possible  for  him 
to  rewrite  the  last  drama  to  fit  the  thesis.  The  fact 
is  that  the  work  is  inconsistent  from  any  point  of 
view  except  the  point  of  view  of  art.  Any  critic 
who  is  an  artist  will  be  equally  inconsistent. 

Truth !  Truth  !  Peter  cried  in  scorn.  Forsooth, 
what  is  truth?  Voltaire  was  right:  error  also  has  its 
merits. 

And  yet  ...  I  began. 

And  yet!  he  interrupted,  still  more  scornfully. 
No,  there  is  no  such  thing  as  truth.  Truth  is  impos 
sible.  Truth  is  incredible.  The  most  impossible 
and  incredible  physical,  spiritual,  or  mental  form  or 
idea  or  conception  in  the  cosmos  is  the  cult  of  truth. 
Truth  implies  permanence  and  nothing  is  permanent. 
Truth  implies  omniscience  and  no  one  is  omniscient. 
Truth  implies  community  of  feeling  and  no  two  hu- 

[185] 


Peter  Whiffle 

man  beings  feel  alike  about  anything,  except  perhaps 
for  a  few  shifting  seconds.  Truth,  well  if  there  is 
such  a  thing  as  truth,  we  may  at  least  say  that  it  is 
beyond  human  power  to  recognize  it. 

But  it  is  not  impossible  to  approach  Truth,  to 
play  around  her,  to  almost  catch  her,  to  vision  her, 
so  to  speak.  No,  that  is  not  impossible.  Nathe- 
less,  the  artist,  the  writer,  the  critic  who  most 
nearly  approaches  Truth  is  he  who  contradicts  him 
self  the  oftenest  and  the  loudest.  One  of  the  very 
best  books  James  Huneker  has  written  is  a  work 
purporting  to  come  from  the  pen  of  a  certain  Old 
Fogy,  in  which  that  one  opposes  all  of  James's 
avowed  opinions.  It  is  probable,  indeed,  that  we 
can  get  the  clearest  view  of  Huneker's  ideas  from 
this  book. 

Then  truth  is  not  an  essential  of  art?  I  asked. 

It  has,  of  course,  nothing  whatever  to  do  with 
art.  No  more  has  form.  Life  has  so  much  form 
that  art,  which  should  never  imitate  life,  should  be 
utterly  lacking  in  form.  Criticism  appears  to  be  a 
case  apart.  Criticism  is  an  attempt,  at  its  worst  at 
least,  to  define  art  and  definition  implies  truth  and 
error.  But  what  the  critics  do  not  realize  in  their 
abortive  efforts  to  capture  her,  is  that  Truth  is  elu 
sive.  She  slips  away  if  you  try  to  pin  her  down. 
You  must,  as  Matthew  Arnold  has  said  much  better 
than  I  can,  approach  her  from  all  sides.  Even  then 
she  will  elude  you,  for  the  reason  I  have  elucidated, 
because  she  does  not  exist  I 

[186] 


His  Life  and  Works 

Why  do  we  read  the  old  critics?  For  ideas?  Sel 
dom.  Style?  More  often.  Anecdote?  Always, 
when  there  is  any.  Spirit?  We  delight  in  it. 
Facts?  Never.  No,  you  will  never  find  facts — at 
least  about  such  a  metaphysical  concept  as  art — cor 
rectly  stated  in  books,  because  there  is  no  way  of 
stating  them  correctly.  And  the  evasion  of  facts  is 
an  exact  science  which  has  yet  to  become  popular 
with  the  critics,  although  it  is  always  popular  with 
readers,  as  the  continued  success  of  Berlioz's  Me- 
moires  goes  to  show.  We  read  the  old  critics  to 
find  out  about  the  critics,  not  about  the  subjects  on 
which  they  are  writing.  Consequently,  it  is  only  the 
critics  who  have  been  interesting  personalities  who 
are  read  through  many  generations. 

As  an  addendum,  I  might  state  that  interest  in  art 
is  fatal.  An  enthusiastic  essay  will  kill  anything. 
Spontaneity  and  freshness  do  not  withstand  praise. 
Art  must  be  devoid  of  self-consciousness.  A  cer 
tain  famous  actress  once  told  me  that  she  never 
liked  to  have  people  particularize  in  their  enthusi 
asm  about  one  of  her  performances.  When,  she 
said,  they  tell  me  that  such  and  such  a  gesture,  such 
and  such  a  tone  of  voice,  is  the  important  moment  in 
one  of  my  interpretations,  I  can  never  repeat  it 
without  remembering  their  praise,  and,  involuntar 
ily,  something  of  the  original  freshness  has  de 
parted. 

I    remember   another   occasion   on   which   Peter 
talked  about  the  subject  that  most  interested  him. 

[187] 


Peter  Whiffle 

It  is  the  pleasant  custom  of  present  day  publish 
ers  of  books,  he  was  saying,  to  prelude  the  real  pub 
lication  of  a  volume  by  what  is  technically  known  as 
a  dummy.  The  dummy,  the  sample  from  which  or 
ders  are  taken,  to  all  outward  inspection,  appears  to 
be  precisely  like  the  finished  book.  The  covers,  the 
labels,  the  painted  top,  and  the  uncut  edges  give  one 
every  reason  to  hope  for  a  meaty  interior.  Once 
opened,  however,  the  book  offers  the  browser  a  suc 
cession  of  blank  pages.  Sheet  after  sheet  of  clean 
white  paper  slips  through  his  fingers,  unless,  by  some 
chance,  he  has  opened  the  volume  at  the  beginning, 
for  the  title-page  and  table  of  contents  are  printed 
(the  dedication  is  missing),  and  so  are  the  first  thir 
teen  pages  of  the  text. 

Such  dummies  are  irresistible  to  me.  Coming 
warm,  hot  even,  from  the  binder,  they  palpitate 
with  a  suggestion  which  no  perusal  of  their  contents 
can  disturb.  How  much  better  than  the  finished 
book!  I  exclaim,  and  there  are  days  when  I  feel  that 
I  will  never  write  a  book;  I  will  write  only  dummies. 
I  would  write  a  title-page,  a  table  of  contents,  and 
thirteen  pages  of  some  ghost  essay,  breaking  off  in 
the  middle  of  a  curious  phrase,  leaving  the  reader 
sweetly  bewildered  in  this  maze  of  tender  thought. 
And,  to  give  this  dummy  over-value,  to  heighten  its 
charm  and  its  mystery,  I  would  add  an  index  to  the 
blank  pages,  wherein  one  could  learn  that  on  empty 
page  76  hovered  the  spirits  of  Heliogabalus  and 
Gertrude  Atherton.  It  would  further  inform  one 

[188] 


His  Life  and  Works 

that  Joe  Jackson,  George  Augustus  Sala,  and  fireless 
cookers  were  discussed  on  page  129.  Fancy  the 
reader's  delight  in  learning  that  he  might  cull  pas 
sages  dealing  with  the  breeding  of  white  mice  on  un- 
begotten  pages  67,  134,  185  et  seq.,  210,  347 ! 

I  have  it  in  mind  to  call  my  first  dummy,  Shelling 
Peas  for  Shillings.  The  binding  will  be  of  magenta 
boards  with  a  pistachio-green  label,  printed  in  ma 
genta  ink.  The  top  will  be  stained  pistachio-green 
and  the  edges  will  be  unopened.  On  the  title-page, 
I  shall  set  an  appropriate  motto  and  a  plausible  table 
of  contents  might  include : 

The  Incredible  History  of  Ambrose  Gwinett 

Inkstains  and  Stoppage 

Purcell,  Polko,  and  Things  Beginning  with  a  P 

Folk-Dancing  at  Coney  Island 

Carnegie  Hall  as  a  Cure  for  Insomnia 

Many  Blue  Objects  and  One  Black  One 

Ouida's  Italy 

Erasmus  Darwin's  Biographer 

Etc. 

You  see  how  the  subjects  present  images  and  ideas 
which  will  make  it  possible  for  the  reader,  in  his 
mind's  eye,  to  write  the  papers  himself.  Shelling 
Peas  for  Shillings,  Peter  rolled  the  name  over.  It's 
a  good  title.  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  sometime  that 
dummy  would  be  much  sought  after  by  collectors. 


[189] 


Chapter  X 


My  story  rolls  on.  As  I  gaze  back  through  the 
years,  gathering  the  threads  of  this  history  together, 
trying  to  weave  them  into  form,  I  am  amazed  to 
recall  how  very  few  times,  comparatively  speaking, 
Peter  and  I  met.  Yet,  I  suppose,  I  was  his  best 
friend  during  these  years,  at  any  rate  his  most  sym 
pathetic  friend.  If  there  were  no  other  proof,  his 
will  would  offer  excellent  evidence  in  this  respect. 
But  we  saw  each  other  seldom,  for  a  few  hours,  a 
few  days,  at  best  for  a  few  weeks,  followed  by  a  pe 
riod  of  vacuum.  I  had  my  own  interests  and,  doubt 
less,  he  had  his.  It  was  characteristic  that  he  never 
wrote  letters  to  me,  with  the  exception  of  the  one  or 
two  brief  notes  I  have  already  inserted  in  the  text. 
His  personality,  however,  was  so  vivid,  the  impres 
sion  he  made  on  me  was  so  deep,  that  he  always 
seemed  to  be  with  me,  even  when  the  ocean  sep 
arated  us.  As  I  write  these  lines,  I  could  fancy  that 
he  stands  beside  me,  a  sombrely  joyous  spectre.  I 
could  believe  that  he  bends  over  my  shoulder  or,  at 
any  rate,  that  presently  I  will  hear  a  knock  at  the 
door  and  he  will  enter,  as  he  entered  Martha  Bak 
er's  studio  on  that  afternoon  in  May  so  long  ago. 

The  magic  Florentine  days  marched  to  a  close. 
I  say  marched,  but  the  musical  form  was  more  ex 
actly  that  of  a  gavotte,  a  pavane,  or  a  stately  Polish 

[190] 


His  Life  and  Works 

dance,  imagined  by  Frederic  Chopin.  It  was  too 
perfect  to  last,  this  life  which  appeared  to  assume 
the  shape  of  conscious  art.  One  afternoon,  Peter 
and  I  motored  to  the  old  Villa  Bombicci,  the  design 
of  which  legend  has  attributed  to  the  hand  of  Mi 
chael  Angelo.  Now  it  had  become  a  farmhouse, 
and  pigs  and  chickens,  a  cock  and  a  few  hens,  stray 
dogs  and  cats,  wandered  about  in  the  carious  cortile. 
We  had  come  to  bathe  in  the  swimming-pool,  a  mar 
ble  rectangle,  guarded  by  a  single  column  of  what 
had  once  been  the  peristyle.  A  single  column,  a 
cornered  wall,  and  a  cluster  of  ivy:  that  was  the  pic 
ture.  We  could  bathe  nude,  for  the  wall  concealed 
the  pool  from  the  farmhouse. 

Peter  was  the  first  to  undress  and,  as  he  stood  on 
the  parapet  of  the  pool  by  the  broken  column,  his 
body  glowing  rose-ivory  in  the  soft  light  of  the  set 
ting  sun,  his  head  a  mass  of  short  black  curls,  he 
seemed  a  part  of  the  scene,  a  strange  visitor  from 
the  old  faun-like  epoch,  and  I  could  imagine  a  faint 
playing  of  pipes  beyond  the  wall,  and  a  row  of  Tan- 
agra  nymphs  fleeing,  terrified,  in  basso-rilievo. 
Sometime,  somewhere,  in  the  interval  since  the  days 
when  we  had  pursued  the  exterior  decorators  on 
the  Bowery  and  at  Coney  Island,  he  had  discovered 
an  artist,  for  now  his  chest  was  tattooed  with  a 
fantastic  bird  of  rose  and  blue,  a  bird  of  paradise, 
a  sirgang,  or,  perhaps,  a  phoenix  or  a  Zhar-Ptitsa, 
the  beak  pointing  towards  his  throat,  the  feathers 
of  the  tail  showering  towards  that  portion  of  the 

[191] 


Peter  Whiffle 

body  which  is  the  centre  of  umbilicular  contempla 
tion  among  the  Buddhists.  He  straightened  his 
lithe  body,  lifted  his  arms,  and  dived  into  the  pool, 
where  he  swam  about  like  a  dolphin.  It  was  Pe 
ter's  nature,  as  I  must  have  made  evident  by  now, 
to  take  the  keenest  joy  in  everything  he  did. 
Almost  immediately,  I  followed  and  we  puffed 
and  blew,  spattering  the  crystal  drops  about  in 
the  air,  so  that  it  seemed  as  if  showers  of 
stones  fell  sharply,  stinging  our  faces,  as  we  lay  on 
our  backs  in  the  warm  water.  Eventually,  clamber 
ing  up  to  the  parapet,  we  sat  silent  for  many  mo 
ments  and  I  remember  that  a  fleecy  cloud  passed 
over  the  face  of  the  sinking  sun.  It  was  very  still, 
save  for  the  soft  lowing  of  cattle  in  the  distant 
mountains,  the  cackling  of  the  hens  in  the  courtyard, 
and  the  sweet  tolling  of  faraway  bells. 

Peter  broke  the  silence. 

I  am  not  going  back  to  the  villa,  he  said. 

Peter!     I  exclaimed.     But.  .  .  . 

I  didn't  know  until  just  now.  I  love  the  villa.  I 
love  Florence.  I  love  Edith  and  I  love  you.  I 
have  never  been  so  happy,  but  it  couldn't  last.  Just 
now  when  we  were  spattering  water  I  had  a  pre 
monition.  .  .  .  He  laughed.  There  was  once  a 
singer — I  do  not  recall  her  name,  but  it  was  neither 
Patti  nor  Jenny  Lind — who  retired  while  she  was 
still  in  the  best  of  voice,  and  those  who  heard  her  in 
her  last  opera  will  always  remember  what  a  great 
singer  she  was.  So  I  am  going  away  while  I  am 

[192] 


His  Life  and  Works 

happy,  so  that  I  can  always  remember  that  I  have 
been  perfectly  happy — once. 

But  you  always  are.  .  .  . 

There,  you  see,  you  think  so !  There  are  months 
and  years  when  I  am  alone,  when  nobody  sees  me. 
Then  I  am  struggling.  I  make  a  great  deal  of 
sport  about  work  and,  indeed,  I  won't  work  at  any 
thing  that  doesn't  interest  me,  but  you  know,  you 
must  know  by  now,  how  much  I  want  to  write.  It 
is  coming  so  slowly.  It  is  getting  late  .  .  .  late. 
I  must  go  away  to  think.  I'm  too  happy  here  and 
I  am  losing  time.  He  was  very  earnest  now.  I 
must  write  my  book. 

But  you  are  coming  back  to  the  villa.  Your 
clothes  are  there,  and  you  will  want  to  say  good-bye 
to  Edith. 

No,  that  is  just  what  I  want  to  avoid  and  that  is 
what  you  can  do  for  me.  I  can't  say  good-bye  to 
Edith.  She  would  persuade  me  to  stay.  It  would 
be  so  easy!  You,  especially,  could  persuade  me  to 
stay,  but  I  know  you  won't,  now  that  you  under 
stand  how  I  feel.  I  shall  catch  the  night  express 
for  Milan.  Please,  try  to  explain  to  Edith  .  .  . 
and  you  can  pack  my  bags  and  send  them  after  me. 

But  where  are  you  going? 

I  don't  know,  and  even  if  I  did  know  and  told 
you,  you  might  be  certain  that  I  would  change  my 
mind  and  go  somewhere  else.  Dispatch  my  bags  to 
the  American  Express  Company  in  Paris  and  I  will 
send  for  them. 

[193] 


Peter  Whiffle 

When  shall  we  meet  again? 

Peter  stood  up,  his  nude  body  outlined  against 
the  crumbling,  pink,  vine-covered  wall.  Then  he 
turned  and  stooped  to  draw  on  his  clothing. 

Chi  lo  sa?  It  will  be  sometime.  You  are  going 
back  to  New  York? 

Yes,  very  soon.     Perhaps  next  week. 

Well,  if  we  don't  meet  somewhere  else,  I  will  go 
there  to  see  you,  that  much  I  promise.  Then,  al 
most  awkwardly,  he  added,  I  want  you  to  have  my 
ring.  He  drew  off  the  amethyst  intaglio  of  Leda 
and  the  Swan  and  handed  it  to  me. 

We  dressed  in  silence.  The  motor  stood  waiting 
in  the  road  beside  the  decrepit  farmhouse,  noble 
even  in  its  decay.  Peter  asked  the  chauffeur  to 
drive  him  to  the  station,  before  he  should  take  me 
back  to  the  Villa  Allegra,  and  at  the  station  we 
parted. 

Dinner  that  night  seemed  tasteless.  Edith  was 
furious;  I  have  seldom  seen  her  so  angry.  It  was 
exactly  what  she  would  have  done  herself,  had  she 
been  so  inclined,  but  she  was  not  at  all  pleased  to 
have  Peter  usurp  her  privileges.  She  hardly  waited 
for  the  salad,  leaving  me  to  munch  my  cheese  and 
drink  my  coffee  alone.  Following  dinner,  I  sat,  a 
solitary  figure  on  the  loggia,  smoking  a  cigarette 
and  sipping  my  Strega.  Giuseppe,  the  boy  who 
brought  it  to  me,  seemed  as  dispirited  as  the  rest  of 
us.  After  trying  in  vain  to  interest  myself  in  half 
a  dozen  books,  I  went  to  bed  and  rolled  about  rest- 

[194] 


His  Life  and  Works 

lessly  during  the  long  hot  night.  I  was  up  very 
early  and  went  to  the  garden  as  usual,  but  now  lonely 
and  miserable,  to  have  my  breakfast.  The  butler, 
more  cynical  than  ever,  brought  the  tray.  A  gar 
denia  and  a  note  were  added  touches.  They  were 
Edith's  farewells.  She  had  departed  for  a  motor 
trip  through  the  Abruzzi.  She  might  return  in 
three  weeks.  I  was  welcome  to  stay  at  the  villa 
and  wait  or.  ...  And  so  that  summer  ended. 

A  month  later,  Edith  was  back  in  New  York  and 
again  I  saw  a  good  deal  of  her.  She  asked  for  news 
of  Peter  but  I  had  none  to  give  her.  Other  friends 
of  mine  who  had  heard  about  him  from  Edith,  ex 
pressed  a  desire  to  meet  him  but,  so  far  as  I  was  con 
cerned,  I  did  not  even  know  whether  or  not  he  was 
alive.  In  December,  however,  passing  through 
Stuyvesant  Square  with  its  gaunt  bare  trees,  the  old 
red-brick  Quaker  school-houses,  and  the  stately  but 
ugly  Saint  George's,  on  my  way  to  Second  Avenue, 
where  I  intended  to  visit  a  shop  where  Hungarian 
music  might  be  procured,  I  found  him,  sitting 
alone  on  a  bench. 

I  am  too  happy  to  see  you  again,  he  greeted  me, 
but  only  you.  Edith  must  not  be  told  that  I  am  in 
New  York,  for  at  last  I  am  working  and  I  can  afford 
no  interruptions.  Edith  has  a  way  of  breaking  up 
the  rhythm  of  one's  life  and  my  life  is  very 
rhythmic  just  now.  Do  you  remember,  one  night  at 
the  villa,  there  was  some  conversation  about  for 
mulae  and  black  magic? 

[195] 


Peter  Whiffle 

You  mean  the  contessa.  .  .  . 

She  was  speaking  figuratively,  perhaps,  but  I  have 
taken  her  literally.  He  paused  for  a  moment;  then 
he  continued,  It  is  possible  that  you  will  also  re 
member  my  telling  you  in  Florence  that  I  believed 
Donatello's  David  to  be  the  most  beautiful  work 
of  art  in  the  world. 

I  remember ;  I  still  think  you  were  right. 

I  haven't  altered  my  opinion.  It  is  the  most 
beautiful  statue  I  have  ever  seen,  just  as  Debussy's 
1'Apres-midi  d'un  Faune  is  the  most  beautiful  music 
I  have  ever  heard,  just  as  The  Hill  of  Dreams  is — 
have  you  read  it? 

At  that  time,  I  had  not,  and  I  admitted  it.  I 
was  even  ignorant  of  the  name  of  the  author. 

Now  Peter,  as  he  sat  on  the  bench  beside  me,  be 
gan  to  speak  of  Arthur  Machen:  The  most  wonder 
ful  man  writing  English  today  and  nobody  knows 
him !  His  material  is  handled  with  the  most  con 
summate  art;  arrangement,  reserve,  repose,  the  per 
fect  word,  are  never  lacking  from  his  work  and  yet, 
at  the  age  of  fifty,  he  is  an  obscure  reporter  on  a 
London  newspaper.  There  are,  of  course,  reasons 
for  this  neglect.  It  is  a  byword  of  the  day  that  one 
only  takes  from  a  work  of  art  what  one  brings  to  it, 
and  how  few  readers  can  bring  to  Machen  the  requi 
site  qualities;  how  few  readers  have  gnosis! 

Machen  evokes  beauty  out  of  horror,  mystery, 
and  terror.  He  suggests  the  extremes  of  the  ter 
rible,  the  vicious,  the  most  evil,  by  never  describing 

[196] 


His  Life  and  Works 

them.  His  very  reserve  conveys  the  infinity  of  abom 
ination.  You  know  how  Algernon  Blackwood  docu 
ments  his  work  and  stops  to  explain  his  magic  orgies, 
so  that  by  the  time  you  have  finished  reading  one  of 
his  weird  stories,  you  completely  discount  it.  On 
the  other  hand,  although  Machen  writes  in  the  sim 
plest  English  concerning  the  most  unbelievable  im 
pieties,  he  never  lifts  the  crimson  curtain  to  permit 
you  to  see  the  sacrifice  on  the  Manichean  altar. 
He  leaves  that  to  the  imagination.  But  his  ex 
pression  soars  so  high,  there  is  such  ecstasy  in  his 
prose,  that  we  are  not  meanly  thrilled  or  revol 
ted  by  his  negromancy;  rather,  we  are  uplifted  and 
exalted  by  his  suggestion  of  impurity  and  corrup 
tion,  which  leads  us  to  ponder  over  the  mysterious 
connection  between  man's  religious  and  sensual 
natures.  Think,  for  a  moment,  of  the  life  of  Paul 
Verlaine,  dragged  out  with  punks  and  pimps  in  the 
dirtiest  holes  of  Paris,  and  compare  it  with  the 
pure  simplicity  of  his  religious  poetry.  Think  of 
the  Song  of  Songs  which  is  Solomon's  and  the  ancient 
pagan  erotic  rites  in  the  holy  temples.  Remember 
the  Eros  of  the  brothels  and  the  Eros  of  the  sacred 
mysteries.  Recall  the  Rosicrucian  significance  of 
the  phallus,  and  its  cryptic  perpetuation  in  the  cross 
and  the  church  steeple.  In  the  middle  ages,  do 
not  forget,  the  Madonna  was  both  the  Virgin 
Mother  of  Christ  and  the  patron  of  thieves,  strum 
pets,  and  murderers.  Far  surpassing  all  other 
conceivable  worldly  pleasures  is  the  boon  promised 

[197] 


Peter  Whiffle 

by  the  gratification  of  the  sensual  appetite;  faith 
promises  a  bliss  that  will  endure  for  ever.  In  either 
case  the  mind  is  conscious  of  the  enormous  impor 
tance  of  the  object  to  be  obtained.  Machen 
achieves  the  soaring  ecstasy  of  Keats's  Ode  on  a 
Grecian  Urn  or  Shelley's  To  a  Skylark,  and  yet  he 
seldom  writes  of  cool,  clean,  beautiful  things.  Was 
ever  a  more  malignantly  depraved  story  written 
than  The  White  People  (which  it  might  be  profit 
able  to  compare  with  Henry  James's  The  Turn  of 
Screw),  the  story  of  a  child  who  stumbles  upon  the 
performance  of  the  horrid,  supernatural  rites  of  a 
forgotten  race  and  the  consequences  of  the  discov 
ery?  Yet,  Machen's  genius  burns  so  deep,  his  power 
is  so  wondrous,  that  the  angels  of  Benozzo  Gozzoli 
himself  do  not  shine  with  more  refulgent  splendour 
than  the  outlines  of  this  erotic  tale,  a  tale  which  it 
would  have  been  easy  to  vulgarize,  which  Black- 
wood,  nay  Poe  himself,  would  have  vulgarized, 
which  Laforgue  would  have  made  grotesque  or 
fantastic,  which  Baudelaire  would  have  made  poetic 
but  obscene.  But  Machen's  grace,  his  rare,  ecstatic 
grace,  is  perpetual  and  unswerving.  He  creates 
his  rhythmic  circles  without  a  break,  the  skies  open 
to  the  reader,  and  the  Lord,  Jesus  Christ,  appears 
on  a  cloud,  or  Buddha  sits  placidly  on  his  lotus. 
Even  his  name  is  mystic,  for,  according  to  the  Arba- 
tel  of  Magic,  Machen  is  the  name  of  the  fourth 
heaven. 

Machen  does  not  often  write  of  white  magic;  he  is 

[198] 


His  Life  and  Works 

a  negromancer;  the  baneful,  the  baleful,  the  horren 
dous  are  his  subjects.  With  Baudelaire,  he  might 
pray,  Evil  be  thou  my  good!  Consider  the  theme  of 
The  Great  God  Pan,  a  psychic  experiment,  operation, 
if  you  will,  on  a  pure  young  girl,  and  its  consequences. 
Again  a  theme  which  another  writer,  any  other 
writer,  would  have  cheapened,  filled  in  with  sordid 
detail,  described  to  the  last  black  mass.  But  Ma- 
chen  knows  better.  He  knows  so  much,  indeed, 
that  he  is  able  to  say  nothing.  He  keeps  the  thau- 
maturgic  secrets  as  the  alchemists  were  bidden  to  do. 
Instead  of  raising  the  veil,  he  drops  it.  Instead  of 
revealing,  he  conceals.  The  reader  may  imagine  as 
much  as  he  likes,  or  as  much  as  he  can,  for  nothing 
is  said,  but  he  rises  from  a  reading  of  one  of  these 
books  with  a  sense  of  exaltation,  an  awareness  that 
he  has  tasted  the  waters  of  the  Fountain  of  Beauty. 
There  is,  indeed,  sometimes,  in  relation  to  this 
writer,  a  feeling1  that  he  is  truly  inspired,  that  he 
is  writing  automatically  of  the  eternal  mysteries, 
that  the  hand  which  holds  the  pen  is  that  of  a  blind 
genius,  and  yet.  .  .  . 

More  straightforward  good  English  prose,  lim 
pid  narrative,  I  am  not  yet  acquainted  with.  What  a 
teller  of  stories!  This  gift,  tentatively  displayed  in 
The  Chronicle  of  Clemendy,  which  purports  to  be  a 
translation  from  an  old  manuscript — Machen  has 
really  been  the  translator  of  the  Heptamaron, 

XA  feeling  in  which  he  encourages  belief  in  his  preface  to   a 
new   edition  of  "The   Great  God   Pan";   1916. 

[199] 


Peter  Whiffle 

Beroalde  de  Verville's  Moyen  de  Parvenir,  and  the 
Memoirs  of  Casanova — ,  flowered  in  The  Three  Im- 
posters,  nouvelles  in  the  manner  of  the  old  Arabian 
authors.  This  work  is  not  so  well-known  as  The 
Dynamiter,  which  it  somewhat  resembles,  but  it  de 
serves  to  be.  Through  it  threads  the  theme,  that  of 
nearly  all  his  tales,  of  the  disintegration  of  a  soul 
through  an  encounter  with  the  mysteries  which  we 
are  forbidden  to  know,  the  Sabbatic  revels,  the  two- 
horned  goat,  alchemy,  devil-worship,  and  the  eter 
nal  and  indescribable  symbols.  The  problem  is  al 
ways  the  same,  that  of  facing  the  great  God  Pan  and 
the  danger  that  lurks  for  the  man  who  dares  the 
facing. 

And  one  wonders,  Peter  continued,  his  eyes  di 
lating  with  an  expression  which  may  have  been  either 
intense  curiosity  or  horror,  one  wonders  what  price 
Machen  himself  has  paid  to  learn  his  secret  of  how 
to  keep  the  secrets!  He  must  have  encountered 
this  horror  himself  and  yet  he  lives  to  ask  the  rid 
dle  in  flowing  prose !  What  has  it  cost  him  to  learn 
the  answer?  Popularity?  Perhaps,  for  he  is  an 
obscure  reporter  on  a  London  newspaper  and  he 
drinks  beer!  That  is  all  any  Englishman  I  have 
asked  can  tell  me  about  him.  Nobody  reads  his 
books;  nobo^dy  has  read  them  .  .  .  except  the  few 
who  see  and  feel,  and  John  Masefield  is  one  of  these. 
This  master  of  English  prose,  this  hierophant,  who 
knows  all  the  secrets  and  keeps  them,  this  delver  in 
forgotten  lore,  this  wise  poet  who  uplifts  and  in- 

[200] 


His  Life  and  Works 

spires  us,  is  an  humble  journalist  and  he  drinks  beer ! 

Peter  paused  and  looked  at  me,  possibly  for  cor- 
roboration,  but  what  could  I  say?  I  had  never, 
until  then,  touched  upon  Machen,  although  I  re 
membered  that  Mina  Loy  had  included  him  in  her 
catalogue  of  protestants  in  the  symposium  at  the 
Villa  Allegra.  Later,  when  I  sought  his  books,  I 
found  them  more  difficult  to  arrive  at  than  those  of 
any  of  his  contemporaries  and  today,  thanks  to  the 
fame  he  has  achieved  through  his  invention  of 
the  mystic  story  of  The  Bowmen,  the  tale  of  the 
Angels  at  Mons,  a  story  which  was  credited  as  true, 
for  returning  soldiers  swore  that  they  had  really 
seen  these  angels  who  had  led  them  into  battle,  thus 
arousing  the  inventive  pride  of  the  author,  who 
published  a  preface  to  prove  that  the  incident  had 
never  occurred  except  in  his  own  brain,  his  early 
books'  command  fantastic  prices.  Eight  or  nine 
pounds  is  asked  for  The  Chronicle  of  Clemendy  and 
forty  or  fifty  pounds  for  his  translation  of  Casan 
ova.  But  on  that  day  I  said  little  about  the  mat 
ter,  because  I  had  nothing  to  say. 

Now  we  were  walking  and  presently  stopped  be 
fore  Peter's  door,  a  house  on  the  south  side  of  Stuy- 
vesant  Square,  conveniently  near,  Peter  observed, 
in  sardonic  reference  to  Marinetti's  millennium,  the 
Lying-in-Hospital.  He  unlocked  the  door  and  we 
entered.  The  hall  was  painted  black  and  was  en 
tirely  devoid  of  furniture.  A  lamp,  depending  on 
an  iron  chain  from  the  ceiling,  shed  but  a  feeble 
[201] 


Peter  Whiffle 

glow,  for  it  was  enclosed  in  a  globe  of  prelatial 
purple  glass.  We  passed  on  to  a  chamber  in  which 
purple  velvet  curtains  were  caught  back  by  heavy 
silver  ropes,  exposing  at  symmetrical  intervals,  the 
black  walls,  on  which  there  were  several  pictures: 
Martin  Schongauer's  copperplate  engraving  of  The 
Temptation  of  Saint  Anthony,  in  which  the  most 
obscene  and  foulest  of  fiends  tear  and  pull  and  bite 
the  patient  and  kindly  old  man;  Lucas  Cranach's 
woodcut  of  the  same  subject,  more  fantastic  but  less 
terrifying;  two  or  three  of  Goya's  Caprichos; 
Felicien  Rops's  Le  Vice  Supreme,  in  which  a  skele 
ton  in  evening  dress,  holding  his  head  in  the  curve 
of  his  elbow,  chapeau  claque  in  hand,  opens  wide  an 
upright  coffin  to  permit  the  emergence  of  a  female 
skeleton  in  a  fashionable  robe;  black  ravens  flit 
across  the  sky;  Aubrey  Beardsley's  Messalina;  Pie- 
ter  Bruegel's  allegorical  copperplate  of  Lust, 
crammed  with  loathsome  details;  and  William 
Blake's  picture  of  Plague,  in  which  a  gigantic  hid 
eous  form,  pale-green,  with  the  slime  of  stagnant 
pools,  reeking  with  vegetable  decays  and  gangrene, 
the  face  livid  with  the  motley  tints  of  pallor  and 
putrescence,  strides  onward  with  extended  arms, 
like  a  sower  sowing  his  seeds,  only  the  germs  of  his 
rancid  harvest  are  not  cast  from  his  hands  but  drip 
from  his  fusty  fingers.  The  carpet  was  black  and 
in  the  very  centre  of  the  room  was  a  huge  silver 
table,  fantastically  carved,  the  top  upheld  by  four 
basilisk  caryatides.  On  this  table  stood  a  huge  egg, 

[202] 


His  Life  and  Works 

round  which  was  coiled  a  serpent,  the  whole  fash 
ioned  from  malachite,  and  a  small  cornelian  casket, 
engraved  in  cuneiform  characters.  There  were  no 
windows  in  the  room,  and  apparently  no  doors,  for 
even  the  opening  through  which  we  had  entered  had 
disappeared,  but  the  chamber  was  pleasantly  lighted 
with  a  lambent  glow,  the  origin  of  which  it  was  im 
possible  to  discover,  for  no  lamps  were  visible.  In 
one  corner,  I  noted  a  cabinet  of  ebony  on  the  top  of 
which  perched  an  enormous  black,  short-haired  cat, 
with  yellow  eyes,  which,  at  first,  indeed,  until  the 
animal  made  a  slight  movement,  I  took  to  be  an 
objet  d'art.  Then  Peter  called,  Lou  Matagot, 
and  with  one  magnificent  bound,  the  creature  landed 
on  the  silver  table  and  arched  his  glossy  back. 
Then  he  sharpened  his  claws  and  stretched  his  joints 
by  the  aid  of  the  casket  scratched  with  the  cuneiform 
symbols. 

Lou  Matagot,  Peter  explained,  signifies  the  Cat 
of  Dreams,  the  Cat  of  the  Sorcerers,  in  the  Proven- 
gal  dialect. 

There  were  a  few  chairs,  strangely  modern,  Bal 
let  Russe  chairs,  upholstered  in  magenta  and  green 
and  orange  brocades  in  which  were  woven  circles 
and  crescents  and  stars  of  gold  and  silver,  but  Pe 
ter  and  I  seated  ourselves  at  one  end  of  the  room 
on  a  high  purple  couch,  a  sort  of  throne,  piled  with 
silver  and  black  cushions,  on  which  was  worked  in 
green  threads  an  emblem,  which  Peter  explained  was 
the  character  of  Mersilde,  a  fiend  who  has  the  power 

[203] 


Peter  Whiffle 

to  transport  you  wherever  you  wish  to  go.  Now, 
he  pulled  a  silver  rope  which  hung  from  the  ceiling, 
the  lights  flashed  off  and  on  again,  and  I  observed 
that  we  were  no  longer  alone.  A  little  black  page 
boy  in  a  rose  doublet,  with  baggy  silver  trousers, 
and  a  turban  of  scarlet  silk,  surmounted  by  heron's 
plumes,  sparkling  with  carbuncles,  stood  before  us. 
He  had  apparently  popped  out  of  the  floor  like  the 
harlequin  in  an  English  pantomime.  At  a  sign  from 
Peter,  he  pressed  a  button  in  the  wall,  a  little  cup 
board  opened,  and  he  extracted  a  bottle  of  amber 
crystal,  half-full  of  a  clear  green  liquid,  and  two 
amber  crystal  glasses  with  iridescent  flanges. 

I  am  striving  to  discover  the  secrets,  said  Peter, 
as  we  sipped  the  liqueur,  the  taste  of  which  was  both 
pungent  and  bitter. 

Not  in  this  room !  I  gasped.  Unless  you  mean 
the  secrets  of  Paul  Poiret  and  Leon  Bakst. 

No,  he  laughed,  as  the  cat  leaped  to  his  shoulder 
and  began  to  purr  loudly,  not  in  this  room.  This 
is  my  reception-room  where  I  receive  nobody.  You 
are  the  first  person,  with  the  exception  of  Hadji, 
to  enter  this  house  since  I  have  remodelled  it  but, 
he  continued  reflectively,  I  have  a  fancy  that  the 
bright  fiends  of  hell,  the  beautiful  yellow  and  blue 
devils,  will  like  this  room,  when  I  call  them  forth 
to  do  my  bidding. 

Again  he  warned  me,  Not  one  word  to  Edith,  do 
you  understand?  Not  one  word.  I  must  be  alone. 
I  have  told  you  and  only  you.  I  must  work  in 
[204] 


His  Life  and  Works 

peace  and  that  I  cannot  do  if  I  am  interrupted. 
This  room  is  my  relief.  It  amuses  me  to  sit  here, 
but  it  is  not  my  laboratory.  Come,  it  is  time  to 
show  you.  Besides,  I  have  my  reasons.  .  .  . 

We  did  not  rise.  The  lights  were  again  myste 
riously  extinguished  and  I  felt  that  the  couch  on 
which  we  sat  was  moving.  The  sensation  was  pleas 
ant,  like  taking  a  ride  on  a  magic  carpet  or  a  tak- 
trevan.  In  a  few  seconds,  when  light  appeared 
again,  instead  of  a  wall  behind  us  we  sat  with  a  wall 
before  us.  Facing  about,  I  perceived  that  we  were 
in  another  chamber,  a  chamber  that  would  have 
pleased  Doctor  Faust,  for  it  was  obviously  the  lab 
oratory  of  an  alchemist.  Nevertheless,  I  noted 
at  once  a  certain  theatrical  air  in  the  arrangement. 

This,  I  said,  seems  more  suitable  for  the  perfor 
mances  of  Herrmann  the  Great  or  Houdini  than  the 
experiments  of  Paracelsus. 

Peter  grinned.  It  was  clear  that  he  was  taking 
a  childish  delight  in  the  entertainment. 

It  is  fun  to  do  this  with  you.  I've  had  no  one 
but  the  black  boy  and  the  cat.  There  are  moments 
when  I  think  I  would  like  to  bring  Edith  here,  but 
she  would  spoil  it  by  getting  tired  of  it,  or  else  she 
would  like  it  too  much  and  want  to  come  every  day 
and  bring  others  with  her  to  see  the  show.  Well, 
look  around. 

I  followed  his  advice.  It  was  the  conventional 
alchemist's  retreat.  There  were  stuffed  owls  and 
mummies  and  astrolabes.  Herbs  and  bones  were 

[205] 


Peter  Whiffle 

suspended  from  the  ceiling.  Skulls  grinned  from 
the  tops  of  cabinets.  There  were  rows  and  rows 
of  ancient  books,  many  of  them  bound  in  sheepskin 
or  vellum,  in  a  case  against  one  wall.  A  few  larger 
volumes,  with  brass  or  iron  clasps,  reposed  on  a 
table.  Lou  Matagot,  who  had  been  carried  into 
the  room  with  us,  presently  stretched  his  great, 
black,  glossy  length  over  the  top  of  one  of  these. 
There  were  cauldrons,  retorts,  crucibles,  rows  of 
bottles,  a  fire,  with  bellows,  and  a  clepsydra,  or 
water-clock,  which  seemed  to  be  running.  There 
was  an  Arcula  Mystica,  or  demoniac  telephone,  re 
sembling  a  liqueur-stand.  Peter  explained  that 
possessors  of  this  instrument  might  communicate 
with  each  other,  over  whatever  distance.  There 
were  cabinets,  on  the  shelves  of  which  lay  amulets 
and  talismans  and  periapts,  carved  from  obsidian 
or  fashioned  of  blue  or  green  faience,  the  surfaces 
of  which  were  elaborately  scratched  with  hermetic 
characters,  and  symplegmata  with  their  curious 
confusion  of  the  different  parts  of  different  beasts. 
There  were  aspergills,  and  ivory  pyxes,  stolen,  per 
haps,  from  some  holy  place,  and  now  consecrated 
to  evil  uses.  There  were  stuffed  serpents  and  di 
vining  rods  of  hazel.  There  were  scrolls  of  parch 
ment,  tied  with  vermilion  cord.  In  fact,  there  was 
everything  in  this  room,  that  David  Belasco  would 
provide  for  a  similar  scene  on  the  stage. 

Here,  said  Peter,  I  study  the  Book  of  the  Dead, 
hierograms,     rhabdomancy,     oneiromancy,     hippo- 

[206] 


His  Life  and  Works 

mancy,  margaritomancy,  parthenomancy,  gyro- 
mancy,  spodanomancy,  ichthyomancy,  kephalono- 
mancy,  lampodomancy,  sycomancy,  angelology, 
pneumatology,  goety,  eschatology,  cartomancy, 
aleuromancy,  alphitomancy,  anthropomancy,  axi- 
nomancy,  which  is  performed  by  applying  an  agate 
to  a  red-hot  ax,  arithmomancy,  or  divination  by 
numbers,  alectoromantia,  in  which  I  lay  out  the  let 
ters  of  the  alphabet  and  grains  of  wheat  in  spaces 
drawn  in  a  circle  and  permit  a  cock  to  select  grains 
corresponding  to  letters,  belomancy,  divination  by 
arrows,  ceroscopy,  cleidomancy,  astragalomancy, 
amniomancy,  cleromancy,  divination  performed  by 
throwing  dice  and  observing  the  marks  which  turn 
up,  cledonism,  coscinomancy,  capnomancy,  divina 
tion  by  smoke,  captoptromancy,  chiromancy,  dac- 
tyliomancy,  performed  with  a  ring,  extispicium,  or 
divination  by  entrails,  gastromancy,  geomancy,  di 
vination  by  earth,  hydromancy,  divination  by  water, 
and  pyromancy  and  aeromancy,  divination  by  fire 
and  air,  onomancy,  divination  by  the  letters  of  a 
name,  onychomancy,  which  is  concerned  with  finger 
nails,  ornithomancy,  which  deals  with  birds,  and 
chilomancy,  which  deals  with  keys,  lithomancy, 
eychnomancy,  ooscopy,  keraunoscopia,  bibliomancy, 
myomancy,  pan-psychism,  metempsychosis,  the 
Martinists,  the  Kabbalists,the  Diabolists,  the  Palla- 
dists,  the  Rosicrucians,  the  Luciferians,  the  Um- 
bilicamini,  all  the  nocuous,  demonological,  and 
pneumatic  learning,  including  transcendental  sen- 

[207] 


Peter  Whiffle 

sualism.  At  present,  I  am  experimenting  with  white 
mice.  I  dip  their  feet  in  red  ink  and  permit  them 
to  make  scrawls  on  a  certain  curious  chart. 

I  have  dabbled  in  drugs,  for  you  know  that  the 
old  Greek  priests,  the  modern  seers,  and  the 
mediaeval  pythonesses,  all  have  resorted  to  drugs 
to  assist  them  to  see  visions.  The  narcotic  or 
anaesthetic  fumes,  rising  from  the  tripods,  lulled  the 
old  Greek  hierophants  and  soothsayers  into  a  sym 
pathetic  frame  of  mind.  First,  I  experimented 
with  Napellus,  for  I  had  read  that  Napellus  caused 
one's  mental  processes  to  be  transferred  from  the 
brain  to  the  pit  of  the  stomach.  There  exists  an 
exact  description  of  the  effects  of  this  drug  on  an 
adept,  one  Baptista  Van  Helmont,  which  I  will  read 
you. 

Peter,  here,  went  to  the  shelves,  and  after  a  little 
hesitation,  pulled  out  an  old  brown  volume.  He 
turned  over  the  pages  for  a  few  seconds  and  then 
began  to  read:  Once,  when  I  had  prepared  the 
root  (of  Napellus)  in  a  rough  manner,  I  tasted  it 
with  the  tongue:  although  I  had  swallowed  nothing,, 
and  had  spit  out  a  good  deal  of  the  juice,  yet  I  felt 
as  if  "my  skull  was  being  compressed  by  a  string. 
Several  household  matters  suggested  themselves  and 
I  went  about  the  house  and  attended  to  them.  At 
last,  I  experienced  what  I  had  never  felt  before.  It 
seemed  to  me  that  I  neither  thought  nor  understood, 
and  as  if  I  had  none  of  the  usual  ideas  in  my  head; 
but  I  felt,  with  astonishment,  clearly  and  distinctly, 

[208] 


His  Life  and  Works 

that  all  these  functions  were  taking  place  at  the  pit 
of  the  stomach:  I  felt  this  clearly  and  perfectly, 
and  observed  with  the  greatest  attention  that,  al 
though  I  felt  movement  and  sensation  spreading 
themselves  over  the  whole  body,  yet  that  the  whole 
power  of  thought  was  really  and  unmistakably  sit 
uated  in  the  pit  of  the  stomach,  always  excepting 
a  sensation  that  the  soul  was  in  the  brain  as  a 
governing  force.  The  sensation  was  beyond  the 
power  of  words  to  describe.  I  perceived  that  I 
thought  with  greater  clearness :  there  was  a  pleasure 
in  such  an  intellectual  distinctness.  It  was  not  a 
fugitive  sensation;  it  did  not  take  place  while  I  slept, 
dreamed,  or  was  ill,  but  during  perfect  conscious 
ness.  I  perceived  clearly  that  the  head  was  perfectly 
dormant  as  regarded  fancy:  and  I  felt  not  a  little 
astonished  at  the  change  of  position. 

Well,  continued  Peter,  closing  the  book  and  re 
garding  me  with  great  intensity,  you  will  admit  that 
would  be  a  sensation  worth  experiencing.  So  I 
tried  it  ...  with  horrible  results.  Will  you  be 
lieve  it  when  I  tell  you  that  I  became  wretchedly  ill 
in  that  very  centre  which  Van  Helmont  locates  as 
the  seat  of  thought?  I  suffered  from  the  most  ex 
cruciating  pains,  which  were  not  entirely  relieved  by 
an  emetic.  Indeed,  I  passed  a  week  or  so  in  bed. 

My  next  experiment,  he  went  on,  was  made  with 
hashish,  Cannabis  Indica,  which  I  prepared  and 
took  according  to  the  directions  of  another  adept, 
who  had  found  that  the  drug  produced  a  kind  of 

[209] 


Peter  Whiffle 

demoniac  and  incessant  laughter,  hearty,  Gargan 
tuan  laughter,  and  the  foreshortening  of  time  and 
space.  He  could  span  the  distance  between  London 
and  Paris  in  a  few  seconds.  Furniture  and  statues 
assumed  a  comic  attitude;  they  seemed  to  move 
about  and  become  familiar  with  him.  He  was  liter 
ally  aware  of  what  the  Rosny  have  called  the  "semi- 
humanite  des  choses."  I  took  the  drug,  as  I 
have  said,  exactly  as  he  directed,  but  the  effect 
on  me  was  entirely  dissimilar.  Immediately,  I 
was  plunged  into  immoderate  melancholy.  The 
sight  of  any  object  immeasurably  depressed  me.  I 
also  noted  that  my  legs  and  arms  had  apparently 
stretched  to  an  abnormal  length.  I  sobbed  with 
despair  when  I  discovered  that  I  could  scarcely  see 
to  the  other  end  of  my  laboratory,  it  seemed  so  far 
away.  Mounting  the  stairs  to  my  bed-chamber  was 
equivalent  in  my  mind  to  climbing  the  Himalayas. 
Although  Hadji  afterward  assured  me  that  I  had 
been  under  the  influence  of  the  drug  for  only 
fourteen  hours,  it  was  more  like  fourteen  years  to 
me,  which  I  had  passed  without  sleep.  At  the  end 
of  the  experiment,  my  nerves  revolted  under  the 
strain  and  again  I  wa-s  forced  to  take  to  my  bed,  this 
time  for  four  days. 

My  third  experiment  was  made  with  Peyote 
beans,  whose  properties  are  extolled  by  the  Ameri 
can  Indians.  After  eating  these  beans,  the  red 
men,  who  use  them  in  the  mysteries  of  their  wor 
ship,  suffer,  I  have  been  informed,  from  an  excruciat- 

[210] 


His  Life  and  Works 

ing  nausea,  the  duration  of  which  is  prolonged. 
After  the  nausea  has  passed  its  course,  a  series  of 
visions  is  vouchsafed  the  experimenter,  these  visions 
extending  in  a  series,  on  various  planes,  to  the  mystic 
number  of  seven.  Under  the  spell  of  these  visions, 
the  adepts  vaticinate  future  events.  I  have  won 
dered  sometimes  if  it  were  not  possible  that  the 
ancient  Egyptians  were  familiar  with  the  proper 
ties  of  these  beans,  that  William  Blake  was  under 
their  influence  when  he  drew  his  mystic  plates. 

Be  that  as  it  may,  I  swallowed  one  bean,  which 
I  had  been  informed  would  be  sufficient  to  give  me 
the  desired  effect,  and  without  interval,  I  was 
carried  at  once  on  to  the  plane  of  the  visions,  which 
concentrated  themselves  into  one  gigantic  phantasm. 
Have  you  ever  seen  Jacques  Callot's  copperplate 
engraving  of  The  Temptation  of  Saint  Anthony? 
The  hideous  collection  of  teratological  monsters, 
half-insect,  half-microbe,  of  gigantic  size,  exposed 
in  that  picture,  swarmed  about  me,  menacing  me 
with  their  horrid  beaks,  their  talons  and  claws,  their 
evil  antennas.  Further  cohorts  of  malignant  mon 
strosities  without  bones  lounged  about  the  room  and 
sprawled  against  my  body,  rubbing  their  flabby, 
slimy,  oozing  folds  against  my  legs.  After  a  few 
more  stercoraceous  manoeuvres,  some  of  which  I 
should  hesitate  to  describe,  even  to  you,  the  mon 
sters  began  to  breathe  forth  liquid  fire,  and  the  pain 
resulting  from  the  touch  of  these  tongues  of  flame 
finally  awoke  me.  I  was  violently  ill,  and  my  ill- 

[211] 


Peter  Whiffle 

ness  developed  in  the  seven  stages  traditionally  al 
lotted  to  the  visions.  First,  extreme  nausea,  which 
lasted  for  two  days,  second,  a  raging  fever,  third, 
a  procession  of  green  eruptions  on  my  legs,  fourth, 
terrific  pains  in  the  region  of  my  abdomen,  fifth, 
dizziness,  sixth,  inability  to  command  any  of  my 
muscles,  and  seventh,  a  prolonged  period  of  sleep, 
which  lasted  for  forty-eight  hours.  Nevertheless, 
I  came  nearer  to  success  in  this  experiment  than  in 
any  other. 

My  fourth  experiment  was  made  with  cocaine, 
which  I  procured  from  a  little  Italian  boy,  about 
eleven  years  old,  who  was  acting  in  a  Bowery  bar 
room  as  agent  for  his  father.  Laying  the  white 
crystals  on  the  blade  of  an  ivory  paper-cutter,  I 
sniffed  as  I  had  observed  the  snow-birds  themselves 
sniff.  Immediately,  my  mind  became  clear  to  an  ex 
tent  that  it  had  never  been  clear  before.  My  in 
tellect  became  as  sharp  as  a  knife,  as  keen  as  the 
slash  of  a  whip,  as  vibrant  as  an  E  string.  I  seemed 
to  have  a  power  of  understanding  which  I  had  never 
before  approached,  not  only  of  understanding  but 
also  of  hearing,  for  I  caught  the  conversation  of 
men  talking  in  an  ordinary  tone  of  voice  out  in  the 
Square.  Also,  I  became  abnormally  active,  nerv 
ous,  and  intense.  I  rushed  from  the  room,  with 
out  reason  or  purpose,  with  a  kind  of  energy  which 
seemed  deathless,  so  strong  was  its  power.  When, 
however,  I  endeavoured  to  make  notes,  for  my  mind 
seethed  with  ideas,  I  was  unable  to  do  so.  I 
[212] 


His  Life  and  Works 

scratched  some  characters  on  paper,  to  be  sure, 
but  I  found  them  wholly  undecipherable  the  next 
day.  They  were  not  in  English  or  in  any  language 
known  to  me.  Finally,  I  ran  out  of  the  house  and, 
encountering,  on  Second  Avenue,  a  fancy  woman  of 
the  Jewish  persuasion,  I  accompanied  her  to  her 
cubicle,  and  permitted  her  to  be  the  subsidiary 
hierophant  in  the  mystic  rites  I  then  performed. 
That,  concluded  Peter,  with  a  somewhat 
sorry  smile,  was  the  last  of  my  experiments  with 
drugs. 

This  story  and,  indeed,  this  whole  phase,  amused 
me  enormously.  An  ambition  which  had  persuaded 
its  possessor  that  in  order  to  become  the  American 
Arthur  Machen,  he  must  first  become  an  adept  in 
demonology  seemed  to  me  to  be  the  culmination  of 
Peter's  fantastic  life,  which,  indeed,  it  was.  But 
I  said  little.  As  usual,  I  let  him  talk  and  I  listened. 
There  seemed,  however,  to  be  a  period  here  and  I 
took  occasion  to  look  over  the  books,  asking  him 
first  if  he  had  any  objection  to  my  copying  off  some 
of  the  titles,  as  I  felt  that  it  might  be  possible  that 
some  day  I  should  want  to  make  some  research  in 
this  esoteric  realm.  He  bade  me  do  what  I  liked 
and,  advancing  towards  the  book-shelves  with  the 
small  note-book  which  I  carried  with  me  at  that 
period  in  order  to  set  down  fleeting  thoughts  as  they 
came,  I  transferred  some  of  the  titles  therein. 

I  stopped  at  last,  not  from  lack  of  patience  on 
my  part,  but  from  observing  the  impatience  of  Peter, 

[213] 


Peter  Whiffle 

who  obviously  had  a  good  deal  more  to  say.  On 
my  turning,  indeed,  he  began  at  once. 

I  have  made,  he  said,  some  tentative  minor  ex 
periments  but  my  final  experiments  are  yet  to  be 
attempted.  Nevertheless,  I  have  found  a  spring 
board  from  which  to  leap  into  my  romance.  Let 
me  read  you  a  few  pages  of  Arthur  Waiters  some 
what  ironic  summary  of  Dr.  Bataille's  Le  Diable  au 
XIX e  Siecle.  Naturally  I  shall  treat  the  subject 
more  seriously,  but  what  atmosphere,  what  a  gor 
geous  milieu  in  which  to  plunge  the  reader  when  he 
shall  open  my  book ! 

Peter  now  took  from  the  shelves  a  small  black 
volume,  lettered  in  red,  and  turned  over  the  leaves. 
First,  he  said,  I  shall  read  you  some  of  the  Doctor's 
experiences  in  Pondicherry,  and  he  began: 

Through  the  greenery  of  a  garden,  the  gloom 
of  a  well,  and  the  entanglement  of  certain  stairways, 
they  entered  a  great  dismantled  temple,  devoted  to 
the  service  of  Brahma,  under  the  unimpressive  di 
minutive  of  Lucif.  The  infernal  sanctuary  had  a 
statue  of  Baphomet,  identical  with  that  in  Ceylon, 
and  the  ill-ventilated  place  reeked  with  a  horrible 
putrescence.  Its  noisome  condition  was  mainly 
owing  to  the  presence  of  various  fakirs,  who,  though 
still  alive,  were  in  advanced  stages  of  putrefaction. 
Most  people  are  supposed  to  go  easily  and  pleasantly 
to  the  devil,  but  these  elected  to  do  so  by  way  of 
a  charnel-house  asceticism,  and  an  elaborate  system 
of  self-torture.  Some  were  suspended  from  the 

[214] 


His  Life  and  Works 

ceiling  by  a  rope  tied  to  their  arms,  some  embedded 
in  plaster,  some  stiffened  in  a  circle,  some  perma 
nently  distorted  into  the  shape  of  the  letter  S;  some 
were  head  downwards,  some  in  a  cruciform  position. 
A  native  Grand  Master  explained  that  they  had 
postured  for  years  in  this  manner,  and  one  of  them 
for  a  quarter  of  a  century. 

Fr.'.  John  Campbell  proceeded  to  harangue  the 
assembly  in  Ourdou-zaban,  but  the  doctor  com 
prehended  completely,  and  reports  the  substance  of 
his  speech,  which  was  violently  anti-Catholic  in  its 
nature,  and  especially  directed  against  missionaries. 
This  finished,  they  proceeded  to  the  evocation  of 
Baal-Zeboub,  at  first  by  the  Conjuration  of  the  Four, 
but  no  fiend  appeared.  The  operation  was  re 
peated  ineffectually  a  second  time,  and  John  Camp 
bell  determined  upon  the  Grand  Rite,  which  began 
by  each  person  spinning  on  his  own  axis,  and  in 
this  manner  circumambulating  the  temple,  in  pro 
cession.  Whenever  they  passed  an  embedded  fakir, 
they  obtained  an  incantation  from  his  lips,  but  still 
Baal-Zeboub  failed.  Thereupon,  the  native  Grand 
Master  suggested  that  the  evocation  should  be  per 
formed  by  the  holiest  of  all  fakirs,  who  was  pro 
duced  from  a  cupboard  more  fetid  than  the  temple 
itself,  and  proved  to  be  in  the  following  condition: — 
(a)  face  eaten  by  rats;  (b)  one  bleeding  eye  hang 
ing  down  by  his  mouth;  (c)  legs  covered  with 
gangrene,  ulcers,  and  rottenness;  (d)  expression 
peaceful  and  happy. 

[215] 


Peter  Whiffle 

Entreated  to  call  on  Baal-Zeboub,  each  time  he 
opened  his  mouth  his  eye  fell  into  it;  however,  he 
continued  the  invocation,  but  no  Baal-Zeboub  mani 
fested.  A  tripod  of  burning  coals  was  next  ob 
tained,  and  a  woman,  summoned  for  this  purpose, 
plunged  her  arm  into  the  flames,  inhaling  with  great 
delight  the  odour  of  her  roasting  flesh.  Result,  nil. 
Then  a  white  goat  was  produced,  placed  upon  the 
altar  of  Baphomet,  set  alight,  hideously  tortured, 
cut  open,  and  its  entrails  torn  out  by  the  native 
Grand  Master,  who  spread  them  on  the  steps,  utter 
ing  abominable  blasphemies  against  Adonai.  This 
having  also  failed,  great  stones  were  raised  from 
the  floor,  a  nameless  stench  ascended,  and  a  large 
consignment  of  living  fakirs,  eaten  to  the  bone  by 
worms  and  falling  to  pieces  in  every  direction,  were 
dragged  out  from  among  a  number  of  skeletons, 
while  serpents,  giant  spiders,  and  toads  swarmed 
from  all  parts.  The  Grand  Master  seized  one  of 
the  fakirs  and  cut  his  throat  upon  the  altar,  chant 
ing  the  satanic  liturgy  amidst  imprecations,  curses, 
a  chaos  of  voices,  and  the  last  agonies  of  the  goat. 
The  blood  spirted  forth  upon  the  assistants,  and  the 
Grand  Master  sprinkled  the  Baphomet.  A  final 
howl  of  invocation  resulted  in  complete  failure, 
whereupon  it  was  decided  that  Baal-Zeboub  had 
business  elsewhere.  The  doctor  departed  from 
the  ceremony  and  kept  his  bed  for  eight-and-forty 
hours. 

Peter  looked  up  from  the  book  in  his  hand  with 

[216] 


His  Life  and  Works 

an  expression  of  ironic  exultation  which  was  very 
quaint. 

What  do  you  think  of  that?  he  asked. 

Very  pretty,  I  ventured. 

Very  strong  for  the  beginning  of  my  romance !  he 
cried.  You  see,  I  shall  commence  with  this  failure 
and  work  up  gradually  to  the  final  brilliant  success. 
Let  me  introduce  you  to  another  passage  from 
Waite's  summary  of  Dr.  Bataille's  masterpiece:  He 
turned  a  few  more  leaves  and  presently  was  read 
ing  again: 

A  select  company  of  initiates  proceeded  in  hired 
carriages  through  the  desolation  of  Dappah,  under 
the  convoy  of  the  initiated  coachmen,  for  the  op 
eration  of  a  great  satanic  solemnity.  At  an  easy 
distance  from  the  city  is  the  Sheol  of  the  native 
Indians,  and  hard  by  the  latter  place  there  is  a  moun 
tain  500  feet  high  and  2000  long  on  the  summit  of 
which  seven  temples  are  erected,  communicating  one 
with  another  by  subterranean  passages  in  the  rock. 
The  total  absence  of  pagodas  makes  it  evident  that 
these  temples  are  devoted  to  the  worship  of  Satan; 
they  form  a  gigantic  triangle  superposed  on  the 
vast  plateau,  at  the  base  of  which  the  party 
descended  from  their  conveyances,  and  were  met 
by  a  native  with  an  accommodating  knowledge 
of  French.  Upon  exchanging  the  Sign  of  Lucifer, 
he  conducted  them  to  a  hole  in  the  rock,  which 
gave  upon  a  narrow  passage  guarded  by  a  line  of 

[217] 


Peter  Whiffle 

Sikhs  with  drawn  swords,  prepared  to  massacre 
anybody,  and  leading  to  the  vestibule  of  the  first 
temple,  which  was  filled  with  a  miscellaneous  con 
course  of  Adepts.  In  the  first  temple,  which  was 
provided  with  the  inevitable  statue  of  Baphomet, 
but  was  withal  bare  and  meagrely  illuminated,  the 
doctor  was  destined  to  pass  through  his  promised 
ordeal  for  which  he  was  stripped  to  the  skin,  and 
placed  in  the  centre  of  the  assembly,  and  at  a  given 
signal  one  thousand  odd  venomous  cobra  de  capellos 
were  produced  from  holes  in  the  wall  and  encour 
aged  to  fold  him  in  their  embraces,  while  the  music 
of  flute-playing  fakirs  alone  intervened  to  prevent 
his  instant  death.  He  passed  through  this  trying  en 
counter  with  a  valour  which  amazed  himself,  per 
sisted  in  prolonging  the  ceremony,  and  otherwise 
proved  himself  a  man  of  such  extraordinary  metal 
that  he  earned  universal  respect.  From  the  Sanc 
tuary  of  the  Serpents,  the  company  then  proceeded 
into  the  second  temple  or  the  Sanctuary  of  the 
Phoenix. 

The  second  temple  was  brilliantly  illuminated  and 
ablaze  with  millions  of  precious  stones  wrested  by 
the  wicked  English  from  innumerable  conquered 
Rajahs;  it  had  garlands  of  diamonds,  festoons  of 
rubies,  vast  images  of  solid  silver,  and  a  gigantic 
Phoenix  in  red  gold  more  solid  than  the  silver. 
There  was  an  altar  beneath  the  Phoenix,  and  a  male 
and  female  ape  were  composed  on  the  altar  steps, 
while  the  Grand  Master  proceeded  to  the  celebra- 

[218] 


His  Life  and  Works 

tion  of  a  black  mass,  which  was  followed  by  an 
amazing  marriage  of  the  two  engaging  animals,  and 
the  sacrifice  of  a  lamb  brought  alive  into  the  temple, 
bleating  piteously,  with  nails  driven  through  its  feet. 

The  third  temple  was  consecrated  to  the  Mother 
of  fallen  women,  who,  in  memory  of  the  adventure 
of  the  apple,  has  a  place  in  the  calendar  of  Lucifer; 
the  proceedings  consisted  of  a  dialogue  between 
the  Grand  Master  and  the  Vestal. 

The  fourth  temple  was  a  Rosicrucian  Sanctuary, 
having  an  open  sepulchre,  from  which  blue  flames 
continually  emanated;  there  was  a  platform  in  the 
midst  of  the  temple  designed  for  the  accommodation 
of  more  Indian  Vestals,  one  of  whom  it  was  pro 
posed  should  evaporate  into  thin  air,  after  which  a 
fakir  would  be  transformed  before  the  company 
into  a  living  mummy  and  be  interred  for  a  space  of 
three  years.  The  fakir  introduced  his  performance 
by  suspension  in  mid-air. 

The  fifth  temple  was  consecrated  to  the  Pelican. 

The  sixth  temple  was  that  of  the  Future  and  was 
devoted  to  divinations,  the  oracles  being  given  by  a 
Vestal  in  a  hypnotic  condition,  seated  over  a  burn 
ing  brazier. 

The  assembly  now  thoughtfully  repaired  to  the 
seventh  temple,  which,  being  sacred  to  Fire,  was 
equipped  with  a  vast  central  furnace  surmounted 
by  a  chimney  and  containing  a  gigantic  statue  of 
Baphomet;  in  spite  of  the  intolerable  heat  pervad 
ing  the  entire  chamber,  this  idol  contrived  to  prc- 

[219] 


Peter  Whiffle 

serve  its  outlines  and  to  glow  without  pulverizing. 
A  ceremony  of  an  impressive  nature  occurred  in  this 
apartment;  a  wild  cat,  which  strayed  in  through  the 
open  window,  was  regarded  as  the  appearance  of  a 
soul  in  transmigration,  and  in  spite  of  its  piteous 
protests,  was  passed  through  the  fire  to  Baal. 

And  now  the  crowning  function,  the  Magnum 
Opus  of  the  mystery,  must  take  place  in  the  Sheol 
of  Dappah;  a  long  procession  filed  from  the  moun 
tain  temples  to  the  charnel-house  of  the  open  plain; 
the  night  was  dark,  the  moon  had  vanished  in  dis 
may,  black  clouds  scudded  across  the  heavens,  a 
feverish  rain  fell  slowly  at  intervals,  and  the  ground 
was  dimly  lighted  by  the  phosphorescence  of  the  gen 
eral  putrefaction.  The  Adepts  stumbled  over  dead 
bodies,  disturbing  rats  and  vultures,  and  proceeded 
to  the  formation  of  the  magic  chain,  sitting  in  a  vast 
circle,  every  Adept  embracing  his  particular  corpse. 

Well?  asked  Peter,  closing  the  book.     Well? 

Kolossal!     I  shouted,  in  German. 

Isn't  it,  and  there's  ever  so  much  more,  wonderful 
stories,  incantations  and  evocations  in  the  works  of 
Arthur  Waite,  Moncure  Daniel  Conway,  Alfred 
Maury,  J.  Collin  de  Plancy,  Frangois  Lenormant, 
Alphonse  Gallais,  the  Abbe  de  Montfaucon  de 
Villars,  J.  G.  Bourgeat,  and  William  Godwin. 
Have  you  ever  heard  of  The  Black  Pullet  or  The 
Queen  of  The  Hairy  Flies? 

This  time,  Carl;  he  spoke  with  great  intensity  and 
earnestness,  I  am  on  the  right  track.  I  am  con- 
[22O] 


His  Life  and  Works 

vinced  that  to  give  a  work  of  this  character  a  proper 
background  one  must  know  a  great  deal  more  than 
one  tells.  That,  in  fact,  is  the  secret  of  all  fine 
literature,  the  secret  of  all  great  art,  that  it  con 
ceals  and  suggests.  The  edges,  of  course,  are 
rounded :  it  is  not  a  rough  and  obvious  concealment. 
You  cannot  begin  not  to  tell  until  you  know  more 
than  you  are  willing  to  impart.  These  books  have 
given  me  a  good  deal,  but  I  must  go  farther — as 
I  am  convinced  that  Machen  has  gone  farther.  I 
am  going  through  with  it  ...  all  through  with  it, 
searching  out  the  secrets  of  life  and  death,  a  few 
of  which  I  have  discovered  already,  but  I  have  yet 
to  make  the  great  test.  And  when  I  know  what 
I  shall  find  out,  I  shall  begin  to  write  .  .  .  but  I 
shall  tell  nothing. 

Peter  was  flaming  with  enthusiasm  again.  It 
wasn't  necessary  for  me  to  speak.  He  required  an 
audience,  not  an  interlocutor. 

Why  not  now?  he  demanded  suddenly.  Why  not 
now  and  here,  with  you? 

What  do  you  mean?    I  queried. 

Why  not  make  the  great  experiment  now?  I 
am  prepared  and  the  moon  and  the  planets  are  fa 
vourable.  Are  you  willing  to  go  through  with  it? 
I  must  warn  you  that  you  will  never  be  the  same 
again.  You  may  even  lose  your  life. 

What  will  happen?     I  asked. 

The  earth  will  rock.  A  storm  will  probably  fol 
low,  thunder  and  lightning,  balls  of  fire,  thunder- 

[221] 


Peter  Whiffle 

bolts,  showers  of  feathers,  and  then  we  shall  dis 
solve  into  .  .  .  into  a  putrid  mass,  the  agamous 
mass  from  which  we  originated,  neither  male  nor 
female,  with  only  a  glowing  eye,  a  great  eye,  radiat 
ing  intelligence  out  of  its  midst.  Then  Astaroth 
himself  (I  shall  call  Astaroth,  because  his  inferiors 
in  the  descending  hierarchy,  Sargatanas  and  Nebiros, 
dwell  in  America)  will  appear,  in  one  of  his  forms, 
perhaps  refulgent  and  beautiful,  perhaps  ugly  and 
tortured  and  hideously  deformed,  perhaps  black  or 
yellow  or  blue,  but  assuredly  not  white  or  green. 
He  may  be  entirely  covered  with  hair  or  entirely 
covered  with  eyes,  or  he  may  be  eyeless.  Mayhap, 
he  will  be  lean  and  proud  and  sad,  and  he  will  prob 
ably  limp,  for  you  know  he  is  lame.  His  feet  will 
be  cloven,  he  will  wear  a  goat's  beard,  and  you  may 
distinguish  him  further  by  the  cock's  feather  and 
the  ox's  tail.  Or,  perhaps,  he  may  arrive  in  the 
shape  of  some  monster :  the  fierce  flying  hydra  called 
the  Ouranabad,  the  Rakshe  who  eats  dragons  and 
snakes,  the  Soham,  with  the  body  of  a  scarlet 
griffin  and  the  head  of  a  four-eyed  horse,  the  Syl, 
a  basilisk  with  a  human  face.  .  .  .  But,  however 
he  may  appear,  in  his  presence  you  shall  learn  the 
last  secrets  of  all  the  worlds. 

And  then  what  will  happen? 

Then  I  shall  speak  the  magic  formula  and  we  will 
resume  our  proper  shapes  but  from  that  moment  on 
we  shall  hover — literally,  not  pathologically — be 
tween  life  and  death.  We  shall  know  everything. 

[222] 


His  Life  and  Works 

.  .  .  and  eventually  we  shall  pay  the  price.  .  ,  . 

Like  Faust? 

Like  Faust  .  .  .  that  is,  if  we  are  not  clever 
enough  to  outwit  the  demon.  Those  who  practise 
devilments  usually  find  some  means  to  circumvent 
the  devil. 

I  appeared  to  ponder. 

I  am  willing  to  go  through  with  it,  I  said  at  last. 

Good !  I  knew  you  would  be.  Let's  get  to  work 
at  once ! 

He  lifted  the  most  ponderous  volume  in  the  lab 
oratory  from  the  floor  to  the  top  of  an  old  walnut 
refectory  table.  The  book  was  bound  in  musty 
yellow  vellum,  clasped  with  iron,  and  the  foxed  leaves 
were  fashioned  from  parchment  made  from  the 
skin  of  virgin  camels.  As  he  opened  it,  I  saw 
that  the  pages  were  inscribed  with  cabalistic 
characters  and  symbols,  illuminated  in  colours,  none 
of  which  I  could  decipher.  Lou  Matagot  jumped 
on  to  the  table  and  sat  on  the  leaves  at  the  top  of 
the  book,  forming  a  paper  weight.  He  sat  with  his 
back  to  Peter  and  his  long,  black  tail  played  nerv 
ously  up  and  down  the  centre  of  the  volume. 

Peter  now  drew  a  circle  with  a  radius  of  twelve 
or  thirteen  feet  around  us,  inscribing  within  its  cir 
cumference  certain  characters  and  pentacles.  Then 
he  plunged  a  dagger  through  what  I  recognized  to 
be  a  sacred  wafer,  which  he  told  me  had  been  stolen 
from  a  church  at  midnight,  at  the  same  time,  mut 
tering  what,  from  the  tone  of  his  voice,  I  took  to  be 

[223] 


Peter  Whiffle 

blasphemous  imprecations,  although  the  language 
he  used  was  unfamiliar  to  me.  Next  he  ar 
ranged  a  copper  chafing-dish  over  a  blue  flame  and 
began  to  stir  the  ingredients,  esoteric  powders  and 
crystals  of  bright  colours.  Now  he  lovingly  lift 
ed  a  crystal  viol,  filled  with  a  purple  liquid,  and 
poured  the  contents  into  a  porcelain  bowl.  In 
stantly,  there  was  a  faint  detonation  and  a  thick 
cloud  of  violet  vapour  mounted  spirally  to  the  ceil 
ing.  All  the  time,  occasionally  referring  to  the 
grimoire  on  the  table,  and  employing  certain  un 
mentionable  symbolic  objects  in  the  manner  pre 
scribed,  he  muttered  incantations  in  the  unknown 
tongue.  The  room  swam  with  odours  and  mists, 
violet  clouds  and  opopanax  fogs.  So  far,  the  in 
vocation  was  pretty  and  amusing  but  it  resembled 
the  arcane  rites  of  Paul  Iribe  more  than  those  of 
Hermes  Trismegistus. 

Now  Peter  pulled  three  black  hairs  from  the  cat's 
tail,  which  Lou  Matagot  delivered  with  a  yowl  of 
rage,  springing  at  the  same  time  from  the  table  to 
the  top  of  the  cabinet,  whence  he  regarded  us 
through  the  mists  and  vapours,  with  his  evil  yellow 
eyes.  The  hairs  went  into  the  chafing-dish  and 
a  new  aroma  filled  the  room.  The  claws  of  an  owl, 
the  flower  of  the  moly,  and  the  powder  of  vipers 
followed  and  then  Peter  opened  a  long  flat  box 
which  nearly  covered  one  end  of  the  huge  table, 
and  a  nest  of  serpents,  with  bellies  of  rich  turquoise 
blue  and  backs  of  tawny  yellow,  marked  with  black 

[224] 


His  Life  and  Works 

zigzags,  reared  their  wicked  heads.  He  called 
them  by  name  and  they  responded  by  waving  their 
heads  rhythmically.  I  began  to  grow  alarmed  and 
dizzy.  Vade  retro,  Satanas!  was  on  tip  of  my 
tongue.  For  a  few  seconds,  I  think,  I  must  have 
fainted.  When  I  revived,  I  still  heard  the  chanting 
of  the  incantation  and  the  sound  of  tinkling  bells. 
The  serpents*  heads  still  waved  in  rhythm  and  their 
bodies,  yellow  and  turquoise  blue,  were  elongated  in 
the  air  until  they  appeared  to  be  balancing  on  the 
tips  of  their  tails.  The  eyes  of  Lou  Matagot 
glared  maliciously  through  the  thick  vapours  and 
the  cat  howled  with  rage  or  terror. 

Now!  cried  Peter,  for  the  first  time  in  English. 
Now! 

My  nails  dug  holes  in  the  palms  of  my  perspiring 
hands.  Peter  renewed  his  nocuous  muttering  and 
casting  the  wafer,  transfixed  by  the  dagger,  into  the 
porcelain  bowl  containing  the  violet  fluid,  he  poured 
the  whole  mixture  into  the  copper  chafing-dish. 

There  was  a  terrific  explosion. 


[225] 


Chapter  XI 

I  left  the  hospital  before  Peter.  My  injuries, 
indeed,  were  of  so  slight  a  nature  that  I  was  con 
fined  only  a  few  days,  while  his  were  so  serious  that 
the  physicians  despaired  of  his  life,  and  he  was 
forced  to  keep  to  his  bed  for  several  months. 
Following  my  early  discharge,  I  made  daily  visits 
of  inquiry  to  the  hospital  but  it  was  not  until  June, 
1914,  that  I  was  assured  that  he  would  recover. 
With  this  good  news,  came  a  certain  sense  of  relief, 
and  I  made  plans  for  another  voyage  to  Europe. 
The  incidents  of  that  voyage — I  was  in  Paris  at  the 
beginning  of  the  war — are  of  sufficient  interest  so 
that  I  may  recount  them  in  another  place,  but  they 
bear  no  relationship  to  the  present  narrative. 

Subsequent  to  his  recovery,  I  have  learned  since 
from  the  physician  who  attended  him  during  his 
protracted  illness,  Peter  returned  to  Toledo  with 
his  mother.  It  is  probable  that  he  made  further 
literary  experiments.  It  has  even  occurred  to  me 
that  the  pivot  of  his  being,  the  explanation  for  his 
whole  course  of  action  may  have  escaped  me.  Al 
though,  from  the  hour  of  our  first  meeting,  my  in 
terest  in  and  my  affection  for  Peter  were  deep,  as 
suredly  I  never  imagined  that  I  should  be  writing 
down  the  history  of  his  life.  For  the  greater  part 

[226] 


H is  Life  and  Works 

of  the  term  of  our  friendship,  indeed,  I  was  a  writer 
only  in  a  very  modest  sense.  I  was  not  on  the  look 
out  for  the  kind  of  "copy"  his  affairs  and  ideas  of 
fered,  for  at  this  period  I  was  a  reporter  of  music 
and  the  drama.  Even  later,  when  I  began  to  set 
down  my  thoughts  in  what  is  euphemistically  called 
a  more  permanent  form,  the  notion  of  using  Peter 
as  a  subject  never  presented  itself  to  me,  and  if  he 
had  asked  me  to  do  so  during  his  lifetime,  urging 
me  to  put  aside  a  pile  of  unfinished  work  in  his  be 
half,  the  request  would  have  astounded  me.  I 
made,  therefore,  no  special  effort  to  ferret  out  his 
secrets.  When  it  was  convenient  for  both  of 
us  we  met  and,  largely  by  accident,  I  was  a  silent 
witness  of  three  of  his  litprary  experiments.  How 
many  others  he  may  have  made,  I  do  not  know.  It 
is  possible  that  at  some  time  or  other  he  may  have 
been  inspired  by  the  religious  school,  the  Tolstoy 
theory  of  art,  or  he  may  have  followed  the  sensuous 
lead  of  Gozzoli  and  Debussy,  artists  whose  work  in 
trigued  him  enormously,  or  in  another  aesthetic 
avatar,  he  may  have  believed  that  true  art  is  de 
grading  or  coldly  classic.  There  is  even  the  possi 
bility,  by  no  means  remote,  that  he  may  have  fallen 
under  the  influence  of  the  small-town  and  psycho 
analytic  schools.  Except  in  a  general  way,  how 
ever,  in  a,  conversation  which  I  shall  record  at  the 
end  of  this  chapter,  he  never  mentioned  further  ex 
periments.  It  is  possible  that  others  may  have  evi 
dence  bearing  on  this  point.  Martha  Baker  might 
[227] 


Peter  Whiffle 

make  a  good  witness,  but  she  died  in  1911.  Mrs. 
Whiffle  knew  nothing  of  any  importance  whatever 
about  her  son.  Since  his  death  I  have  interrogated 
her  in  vain.  She  was,  indeed,  very  much  astonished 
at  the  little  I  told  her  and  she  will  read  this  book,  I 
think,  with  real  amazement.  The  report  of  Clara 
Barnes,  too,  was  negligible.  Edith  Dale  has  sup 
plied  me  with  a  few  facts  which  I  have  inserted 
where  they  chronologically  belong.  Most  of  my 
other  friends,  Phillip  Moeller,  Alfred  Knopf,  Edna 
Kenton,  Pitts  Sanborn,  Avery  Hopwood,  Freddo 
Sides,  Joseph  Hergesheimer,  even  my  wife,  Fania 
Marinoff,  never  met  Peter.  Louis  Sherwin  walked 
up  Fifth  Avenue  with  us  one  day,  but  Peter  was  un 
usually  silent  and  after  he  had  left  us  at  the  corner 
of  Fifty-seventh  Street,  Louis  was  not  sufficiently 
curious  to  ask  any  questions  concerning  him.  I 
doubt  if  Louis  could  even  recall  the  incident  today. 
I  have  inserted  advertisements  in  the  Paris,  New 
York,  and  Toledo  newspapers,  begging  any  one 
with  pertinent  facts  or  letters  in  his  possession  to 
communicate  with  me,  but  as  yet  I  have  received 
no  replies.  I  have  never  seen  a  photograph  of  my 
friend  and  his  mother  informs  me  that  she  doubts  if 
he  ever  sat  for  one. 

The  record,  therefore,  of  Peter's  literary  life,  at 
the  conclusion  of  this  chapter,  will  be  as  complete 
as  I  can  make  it.  I  have  tried  to  set  down  the  truth 
as  I  saw  it,  leaving  out  nothing  that  I  remember, 
even  at  the  danger  of  becoming  unnecessarily  gar- 

[228] 


His  Life  and  Works 

rulous  and  rambling.  I  have  written  down  all  I 
know  because,  after  all,  I  may  have  misunderstood 
or  misinterpreted,  and  some  one  else,  with  the  facts 
before  him,  may  be  better  able  to  reconstruct  the 
picture  of  this  strange  life. 

Our  next  meeting  occurred  in  January,  1919,  and 
his  first  remark  was,  Thank  God,  you're  not  shot 
up!  From  that  time,  until  the  day  of  his  death, 
nearly  a  year  later,  Peter  never  mentioned  the  war 
to  me  again,  although  I  saw  him  frequently  enough, 
nor  did  he  speak  of  his  writing,  save  once,  on  an 
occasion  which-shall  be  reported  in  its  proper  place. 

When  we  came  together  for  the  first  time,  after 
the  long  interval — he  had  just  returned  to  New 
York  from  Florida — I  was  surprised  at  and  even 
shocked  by  the  purely  physical  change,  which,  to  be 
sure,  had  a  psychical  significance,  for  his  face  had 
grown  more  spiritual.  He  had  always  been  slender, 
but  now  he  was  thin,  almost  emaciated.  To  describe 
his  appearance  a  little  later,  I  might  use  the 
word  haggard.  His  coat,  which  once  fitted  his  fig 
ure  snugly,  rather  hung  from  his  shoulders.  There 
were  white  patches  in  the  blue-black  of  his  hair,  deep 
circles  under  his  eyes,  and  hollows  in  his  cheeks. 
But  his  eyes,  themselves,  seemed  to  shine  with  a  new 
light,  seemed  to  see  something  which  I  could  not 
even  imagine.  He  had  rid  himself  of  many  excres 
cences  and  externalities,  the  purely  adscititious  qual 
ities,  charming  though  they  might  be,  which  masked 
his  personality.  He  had,  indeed,  discovered  him- 

[229] 


Peter  Whiffle 

self,  although  I  never  knew  how  clearly  until  our 
last  conversation.  Peter,  without  appearing  to  be 
particularly  aware  of  it,  had  become  a  mystic.  His 
emancipation  had  come  through  suffering.  He  was 
quieter,  less  restless,  less  excitable,  still  enthusiastic, 
but  with  more  balance,  more — I  do  not  wish  to  be 
misunderstood — irony.  He  had  found  life  very 
satisfying  and  very  hard,  very  sweet,  with  some 
thing  of  a  bitter  after-taste.  He  seemed  almost 
holy  to  me,  reminding  me  at  times  of  those  ascetic 
monks  who  crawl  two  thousand  miles  on  their  bellies 
to  worship  at  some  shrine,  or  of  those  Hindu  fakirs 
who  lie  in  one  tortured  position  for  years,  their 
bodies  slowly  consuming,  while  their  souls  gain  fire. 
That  he  was  ill,  very  ill,  I  surmised  at  once,  al 
though,  like  everything  else  I  have  noted  here,  this 
was  an  impression.  He  made  no  admissions,  never 
spoke  of  his  malady;  indeed,  for  Peter,  he  talked 
astonishingly  little  about  himself.  He  was  pathetic 
and  at  the  same  time  an  object  for  admiration. 

Afterwards,  I  learned  from  his  mother  that  he 
suffered  from  an  incurable  disease,  the  disease 
that  killed  him  late  in  1919.  But  he  never  spoke  of 
this  to  me  and  he  never  complained,  unless  his  oc 
casional  confession  that  he  was  tired  might  be  con 
strued  as  a  complaint. 

We  had  fine  times  together,  of  a  new  kind.  The 
tables,  in  a  sense,  were  turned.  I  had  become  the 
writer,  however  humble,  and  his  ambition  had  not 

[230] 


His  Life  and  Works 

been  realized.  His  sympathy  with  my  work,  with 
what  I  was  trying  to  do,  which  he  saw  almost  im 
mediately,  saw,  indeed,  in  the  beginning,  more 
clearly  than  I  saw  it  myself,  was  complete.  He  was 
never  weary  of  talking  about  it,  at  any  rate  he  never 
showed  me  that  he  was  weary,  and  naturally  this 
drew  us  very  closely  together,  for  an  author  is  fond 
est  of  those  men  who  talk  the  most  about  his  work. 
But  this  is  not  the  place  to  publish  his  opinions  of 
me,  although  some  of  them  were  so  curious  and  far- 
seeing — they  were  not  all  flattering  by  any  means — 
that  I  shall  undoubtedly  recur  to  them  in  my  auto 
biography.  Fortunately  for  me,  his  sympathy  grew 
as  my  work  progressed,  and  it  seemed  amazing  to 
me  later,  looking  over  the  book  after  a  period  of 
years,  that  he  had  found  anything  pleasant  to  re 
port  of  Music  After  the  Great  War.  He  had,  in 
deed,  seen  something  in  it,  and  when  I  recalled  what 
he  had  said  it  was  impossible  to  feel  that  he  had 
overstated  the  case  in  the  interests  of  friendship. 
He  had  seen  the  germ,  the  root  of  what  was  to 
come;  he  had  seen  a  suggestion  of  a  style,  unde 
veloped  ideas,  which  he  felt  would  later  be  de 
veloped,  as  indeed,  to  a  limited  extent,  they  were. 
His  plea,  to  put  it  concisely,  had  been  for  a  more 
personal  expression.  He  was  always  asking  me, 
after  this  or  that  remark  or  anecdote  in  conver 
sation,  why  I  did  not  write  it,  just  as  I  had  said  it 
or  told  it,  and  it  was  a  great  pleasure  for  him  to  per- 

[231] 


Peter  Whiffle 

ceive  in  The  Merry-Go-Round  and  In  the  Garret 
(of  which  he  read  the  proofs  just  before  his  death) 
some  signs  of  growth  in  this  direction. 

You  are  becoming  freer,  he  would  say.  You 
are  loosening  your  tongue;  your  heart  is  beating 
faster.  In  time  you  may  liberate  those  subconscious 
ideas  which  are  entangled  in  your  very  being.  It 
is  only  your  conscious  self  that  prevents  you  from 
becoming  a  really  interesting  writer.  Let  that  once 
be  as  free  as  the  air  and  the  other  will  be  free  too. 
You  must  walk  boldly  and  proudly  and  without 
fear.  You  must  search  the  heart;  the  mind  is  neg 
ligible  in  literature  as  in  all  other  forms  of  art.  Try 
to  write  just  as  you  feel  and  you  will  discover  that 
your  feeling  is  greater  than  your  knowledge  of  it. 
The  words  that  appear  on  the  paper  will  at  first 
seem  strange  to  you,  almost  like  hermetic  symbols, 
'and  it  is  possible  that  in  the  course  of  time  you  will 
be  able  to  say  so  much  that  you  yourself  will  not  un 
derstand  what  you  are  writing.  Do  not  be  afraid 
of  that.  Let  the  current  flow  freely  when  you  feel 
that  it  is  the  true  current  that  is  flowing. 

That  is  the  lesson,  he  continued,  that  the  creative 
or  critical  artist  can  learn  from  the  interpreter,  the 
lesson  of  the  uses  of  personality.  The  great  in 
terpreters,  Rachel,  Ristori,  Mrs.  Siddons,  Duse, 
Bernhardt,  Rejane,  Ysaye,  Paderewski,  and  Mary 
Garden  are  all  big,  vibrant  personalities,  that  the 
deeper  thing,  call  it  God,  call  it  IT,  flows  through 
and  permeates.  You  may  not  believe  this  now,  but  I 

[232] 


His  Life  and  Works 

know  it  is  true,  and  you  will  know  it  yourself  some 
day.  And  if  you  cannot  release  your  personality, 
what  you  write,  though  it  be  engraved  in  letters 
an  inch  deep  on  stones  weighing  many  tons,  will 
lie  like  snow  in  the  street  to  be  melted  away  by  the 
first  rain. 

We  talked  of  other  writers.  Peter  drew  my  at 
tention,  for  instance,  to  the  work  of  Cunninghamc 
Graham,  that  strange  Scotch  mystic  who  turned  his 
back  on  civilization  to  write  of  the  pampas,  the  arid 
plains  of  Africa,  India,  and  Spain,  only  to  find  irony 
everywhere  in  every  work  of  man.  But,  observed 
Peter,  he  could  not  hate  civilization  so  intensely  had 
he  not  lived  in  it.  It  is  all  very  well  to  kick  over 
the  ladder  after  you  have  climbed  it  and  set  foot  on 
the  balcony.  Like  all  lovers  of  the  simple  life,  he 
is  very  complex.  And  we  discussed  James  Branch 
Cabell,  who,  Peter  told  me,  was  originally  a  "ro 
mantic."  He  wrote  of  knights  and  ladyes  and  pal 
freys  with  sympathetic  picturesqueness.  Of  late, 
however,  continued  Peter,  he,  too,  seems  to  have 
turned  over  in  bed.  Romanticism  still  appears  in 
his  work  but  it  is  undermined  by  a  biting  and  dis 
turbing  irony.  He  asks:  Are  any  of  the  manifesta 
tions  of  modern  civilization  worthy  of  admiration? 
and  like  Graham,  he  seems  to  answer,  No.  It  is 
possible  that  the  public  disregard  for  his  earlier  and 
simpler  manner  may  have  produced  this  metamor 
phosis.  Many  a  man  has  become  bitter  with  less 
reason.  Then  he  spoke  of  the  attributed  influence 

[233] 


Peter  Whiffle 

of  Maurice  Hewlett  and  Anatole  France  on  the  work 
of  Cabell.  Bernard  Shaw,  said  Peter,  once  lost  all 
patience  with  those  critics  who  insisted  that  he  was  a 
son  of  Ibsen  and  Nietzsche  and  asserted  that  it  was 
their  ignorance  that  prevented  them  from  realizing 
the  debt  he  owed  to  Samuel  Butler.  Cabell  might, 
with  justice,  voice  a  similar  complaint,  for  if  he  ever 
had  a  literary  father  it  was  Arthur  Machen.  In  that 
author's  The  Chronicle  of  Clemendy,  issued  in  1888, 
may  be  discovered  the  same  confusion  of  irony  and 
romance  that  is  to  be  traced  in  the  work  of  Cabell. 
Moreover,  like  The  Soul  of  Melicent,  the  book  pur 
ports  to  be  a  translation  from  an  old  chronicle.  I 
might  further  speak  of  the  relationship  between 
Hieroglyphics  and  Beyond  Life,  The  Hill  of 
Dreams  and  The  Cream  of  the  Jest,  although 
in  each  case  the  treatment  and  the  style  are 
entirely  dissimilar.  Machen  even  preceded  Ca 
bell  in  his  use  of  unfavourable  reviews  (Vide  the 
advertising  pages  of  Beyond  Life)  in  his  preface 
to  the  1916  edition  of  The  Great  God  Pan.  Per 
haps,  added  Peter,  Cabell  has  also  read  Herman 
Melville's  Mardi  to  some  advantage.  But  he  is 
no  plagiarist;  I  am  speaking  from  the  point  of 
view  of  literary  genealogy.  Peter,  at  my  instiga 
tion,  read  a  novel  or  two  of  Joseph  Hergesheimer's. 
Linda  Condon,  he  reported,  is  as  evanescent  as  the 
spirit  of  God.  Only  those  who  have  encountered 
Lady  Beauty  among  the  juniper  trees  in  the  early 
dawn  will  feel  this  book,  and  only  those  who  feel 

[234] 


His  Life  and  Works 

will  understand.  For  Hergesheimer  has  worked  a 
miracle;  he  has  brought  marble  to  life,  created  a 
vibrant  chastity.  He  has  described  ice  in  words  of 
flame! 

One  night,  quite  accidentally,  we  saw  the  name  of 
Clara  Barnes  on  a  poster  in  front  of  the  Metro 
politan  Opera  House.  She  was  singing  the  role  of 
the  Priestess  in  Aida.  We  purchased  two  general 
admission  tickets  and  slipped  in  to  hear  her.  The 
Priestess,  those  who  have  heard  Aida  will  remem 
ber,  officiates  in  the  temple  scene  of  the  first  act  but, 
like  the  impersonator  of  the  Bird  in  Siegfried,  she 
is  invisible.  Clara's  voice  sounded  tired  and  worn, 
as  indeed,  it  should  sound  after  those  long  years  of 
study. 

We  must  go  back  to  see  her,  Peter  urged. 

We  found  a  changed  and  broken  Clara.  She  was 
dressing  alone,  but  on  the  third  floor,  and  the  odour 
of  Coeur  de  Jeannette  persisted.  She  burst  into 
tears  when  she  saw  us. 

I  can't  do  it,  she  moaned.  Why  did  you  ever 
come?  I  can't  do  it.  I  can  only  sing  with  my  mu 
sic  in  front  of  me.  I  shall  never  be  able  to  sing  a 
part  which  appears  and  there  are  so  few  roles  in 
opera,  which  permit  you  to  sing  back  of  the  scenery! 
I  can't  remember.  Now  she  was  wailing.  As 
fast  as  I  learn  one  part  I  forget  another. 

As  we  walked  away  on  Fortieth  Street,  Peter 
began  to  relate  an  incident  he  had  once  read  in 
Plutarch :  There  jvas  a  certain  magpie,  belonging  to 

[235] 


Peter  Whiffle 

a  barber  at  Rome,  which  could  imitate  any  word  he 
heard.  One  day,  a  company  of  passing  soldiers 
blew  their  trumpets  before  the  shop  and  for  the 
next  forty-eight  hours  the  magpie  was  not  only 
mute  but  also  pensive  and  melancholy.  It  was  gen 
erally  believed  that  the  sound  of  the  trumpets  had 
stunned  the  bird  and  deprived  it  of  both  voice  and 
hearing.  It  appeared,  however,  that  this  was  not 
the  case  for,  says  Plutarch,  the  bird  had  all  the 
time  been  occupied  in  profound  meditation,  studying 
how  to  imitate  the  sound  of  the  trumpets,  and  when 
at  last  master  of  the  trick,  he  astonished  his  friends 
by  a  perfect  imitation  of  the  flourish  on  those  in 
struments  it  had  heard,  observing  with  the  greatest 
exactness  all  the  repetitions,  stops,  and  changes. 
This  lesson,  however,  had  apparently  been  learned 
at  the  cost  of  the  whole  of  its  intelligence,  for 
it  made  it  forget  everything  it  had  learned  be 
fore. 

We  visited  many  out-of-the-way  places  to 
gether,  Peter  and  I,  the  Negro  dance-halls  near 
135 th  Street,  and  the  Italian  and  the  Yiddish 
Theatres.  Peter  once  remarked  that  he  enjoyed 
plays  more  in  a  foreign  language  with  which  he  was 
unfamiliar.  What  he  could  imagine  of  plot  and 
dialogue  far  transcended  the  actuality.  We  often 
dined  at  a  comfortable  Italian  restaurant  on  Spring 
Street,  on  the  walls  of  which  birds  fluttered  through 
frescoed  arbours,  trailing  with  fruits  and  flowers, 
and  where  the  spaghetti  was  too  good  to  be  eaten 

[236] 


His  Life  and  Works 

without  prayer.  In  an  uptown  cafe,  we  had  a 
strange  adventure  with  a  Frenchwoman,  La  Ti- 
gresse,  which  I  have  related  elsewhere.1  Peter  re 
fused,  in  these  last  months,  to  go  to  concerts,  es 
pecially  in  Carnegie  Hall,  the  atmosphere  of  which, 
he  said,  made  it  impossible  to  listen  to  music.  The 
bare  walls,  the  bright  lights,  the  sweating  con 
ductors,  and  the  silly,  gaping  crowd  oppressed  his 
spirit.  He  envied  Ludwig  of  Bavaria  who  could 
listen  to  music  in  a  darkened  hall  in  which  he  was 
the  only  auditor.  Conditions  were  more  favour 
able  in  the  moving  picture  theatres.  The  bands, 
perhaps,  did  not  play  so  well  but  the  auditoriums 
were  more  subtly  lighted,  so  that  the  figures  of  the 
audience  did  not  intrude. 

Peter  was  more  of  a  recluse  than  ever.  It  had 
been  impossible  to  persuade  him  to  meet  anybody 
since  the  Edith  Dale  days  (Edith  herself  was  now 
living  in  New  Mexico  and,  owing  to  a  slight  mis 
understanding,  I  had  not  seen  or  heard  from  her 
in  five  years).  He  was  even  sensitive  and  morbid 
on  the  subject.  He  made  me  promise,  as  a  matter 
of  fact,  after  the  Louis  Sherwin  episode,  that  in 
case  we  encountered  any  of  my  friends  in  a  res 
taurant  or  at  a  theatre,  I  would  not  introduce  him. 
There  was,  I  assured  myself,  a  good  reason  for  this. 
In  these  last  days,  Peter  faded  out  in  a  crowd.  He 
lost  a  good  deal  of  his  personality  even  in  the  pres 
ence  of  a  third  person.  I  begged  him  to  go  with 
xln  the  Garret 

[237] 


Peter  Whiffle 

me  to  Florine  Stettheimer's  studio  to  see  her  pic 
tures,  which  I  was  sure  would  please  him,  but  he  re 
fused.  He  liked  to  stroll  around  with  me  in  odd 
places  and  he  read  and  played  the  piano  a  good 
deal,  but  he  seemed  to  have  few  other  interests. 
He  was  absolutely  ignorant  of  such  matters  as 
politics  and  government.  He  never  voted  and  I 
have  heard  him  refer  to  the  president,  and  not  in 
jest,  as  Abraham  Wilson.  Sports  did  not  amuse 
him  either,  but  occasionally  we  went  together  to  see 
the  wrestlers  at  Madison  Square  Garden,  especially 
when  Stanislaus  Zbyszko  was  announced  to  appear. 
He  never  went  to  Europe  again  although,  shortly 
before  he  died,  he  talked  of  a  voyage  to  Spain.  He 
visited  his  mother  at  Toledo  several  times  and  he 
had  planned  a  trip  to  Florida,  the  climate  of  which 
he  found  particularly  soothing  to  his  malady,  in 
January,  1920.  Occasionally  he  just  disappeared, 
returning  again,  somewhat  mysteriously,  without 
any  explanation,  without,  indeed,  any  admission  that 
he  had  been  away.  I  knew  him  too  well  to  ask  ques 
tions  and,  to  say  truth,  there  was  something  very 
sweet  about  these  little  mystifications.  Privacy 
was  so  dear  a  privilege  to  him  that  even  with  his 
nearest  friends,  of  which,  assuredly,  I  was  one,  per 
haps  the  nearest  in  this  last  year,  it  was  essential 
to  his  happiness  that  he  should  maintain  a  certain 
restraint,  a  certain  reserve,  I  had  almost  said,  a  cer 
tain  mystery,  but,  curiously,  there  was  nothing  theat 
rical  about  Peter,  even  in  his  most  theatrical  per- 

[238] 


His  Life  and  Works 

formances.  Just  as  by  the  fineness  of  his  taste,  Rem 
brandt  softened  the  hideousness  of  a  lurid  subject 
in  his  Anatomy  Lesson,  so  the  exquisite  charm  of 
Peter's  personality  overcame  any  possible  repug 
nance  to  anything  he  might  choose  to  do. 

During  this  last  year  in  New  York,  he  lived  in  an 
old  house  on  Beekman  Place,  that  splendid  row,  just 
two  blocks  long,  of  mellow  brown-stone  dwellings, 
with  flights  of  steps,  which  back  upon  the  East 
River  at  Fiftieth  Street.  We  often  sat  on  the 
balcony,  looking  over  towards  the  span  of  the 
Queensboro  Bridge,  Blackwell's  Island,  with  its 
turreted  and  battlemonted  castles  so  like  the  Mys 
teries  of  Udolpho,  watching  the  gulls  sweep  over 
the  surface  of  the  water,  the  smoke  wreathe  from 
the  factory  chimneys,  and  the  craft  on  the  river, 
with  cargoes  "of  Tyne  coal,  road-rails,  pig-lead, 
fire-wood,  iron-ware,  and  cheap  tin  trays,'1  of  the 
city,  but  seemingly  away  from  it,  with  our  backs  to 
it,  literally,  indeed,  while  life  ebbed  by.  And,  at 
my  side,  too,  I  saw  it  slowly  ebbing. 

The  interior,  one  of  those  fine  old  New  York 
interiors,  with  high  ceilings,  bordered  with  plaster 
guilloches,  white  carved  marble  fire-places,  sliding 
doors,  and  huge  crystal  chandeliers,  whose  pendants 
jingled  when  some  one  walked  on  the  floor  above, 
it  had  been  his  happy  fancy  to  decorate  in  the  early 
Victorian  manner.  The  furniture,  to  be  sure,  was 
mostly  Chippendale,  Sheraton,  and  Heppelwhite, 
but  there  were  also  heavy  carved  walnut  chairs, 

[239] 


Peter  Whiffle 

upholstered  in  lovely  figured  glazed  chintzes.  The 
mirrors  were  framed  in  four  inches  of  purple  and 
red  engraved  glass.  The  highboys  were  littered 
with  ornaments,  Staffordshire  china  dogs  and  shep 
herdesses,  splendid  feather  and  shell  flowers,  and 
ormolu  clocks  stood  under  glass  bells  on  the  mantel 
shelves.  He  had  found  a  couple  of  rather  worn, 
but  still  handsome,  Aubusson  carpets,  with  garlands 
of  huge  roses  of  a  pale  blush  colour.  One  of  these 
was  in  the  drawing-room,  the  other  in  the  library. 
An  old  sampler  screen  framed  the  fire-place  in  the 
latter  room.  The  books  were  curious.  Peter  was 
now  interested  in  byways  of  literature.  I  remem 
ber  such  volumes  as  Thomas  Mann's  Der  Tod  in 
Venedig,  Paterne  Berrichon's  Life  of  Arthur  Rim 
baud,  Alfred  Jarry's  Ubu  Roi,  with  music  by  Claude 
Terrasse,  Jean  Lorrain's  La  Maison  Philibert, 
Richard  Garnett's  The  Twilight  of  the  Gods,  the 
Comte  de  Lautreamont's  Les  Chants  de  Maldoror, 
Leolinus  Siluriensis's  The  Anatomy  of  Tobacco, 
Binet-Valmer's  Lucien,  Haldane  MacFall's  The 
Wooings  of  Jezebel  Pettyfer,  James  Morier's 
Hajji  Baba  of  Ispahan,  Robert  Hugh  Benson's 
The  Necromancers,  Andre  Gide's  L'Immoraliste, 
and  various  volumes  by  Guillaume  Apollinaire. 
The  walls  of  the  drawing-room  were  hung  with  a 
French  eighteenth  century,  rose  cotton  print,  the  de 
sign  of  which  showed,  on  one  side,  Cupid  rowing 
lustily,  while  listless  old  Time  sat  in  the  bow  of  the 
boat,  with  the  motto:  TAmour  fait  passer  le  Temps; 

[240] 


His  Life  and  Works 

and,  on  the  other  side,  Time  propelling  the  boat, 
while  a  saddened  Cupid,  his  face  buried  in  his 
hands,  was  the  downcast  passenger,  with  the 
motto:  Le  Temps  fait  passer  I'Amour.  In 
the  centre,  beside  a  charming  Greek  temple,  a 
nymph  toyed  with  a  spaniel,  and  the  motto 
read:  1'Amitie  ne,  craint  pas  le  Temps! 
There  were,  therefore,  no  pictures  on  these  walls, 
but,  elsewhere,  where  the  walls  were  white,  or 
where  they  were  hung  with  rich  crimson  Roman 
damask,  as  in  the  library,  there  were  a  few  steel 
engravings  and  mezzotints  and  an  early  nineteenth 
century  lithograph  or  two.  Over  his  night-table, 
at  the  side  of  his  bed,  he  had  pinned  a  photograph 
of  a  detail  of  Benozzo  Gozzoli's  frescoes  in  the 
Palazzo  Riccardi,  the  detail  of  the  three  youths, 
and  there  was  also  a  large  framed  photograph  of 
Cranach's  nai've  Venus  in  this  room.  The  piano 
stood  in  the  drawing-room,  near  one  of  the  win 
dows,  looking  over  the  river.  It  was  always  open 
and  the  rack  was  littered  with  modern  music:  John 
Ireland's  London  Pieces,  Bela  Bartok's  Three  Bur 
lesques,  Gerald  Tyrwhitt's  Three  Little  Funeral 
Marches,  music  by  Erik  Satie,  Darius  Milhaud, 
Georges  Auric,  and  Zoltan  Kodaly.  I  remember 
one  day  he  asked  me  to  look  at  Theodor  Streiche's 
Spriiche  and  Gedichte,  with  words  by  Richard 
Dehmel,  the  second  of  which  he  averred  was  the 
shortest  song  ever  composed,  consisting  of  but  four 
bars. 

[241] 


Peter  Whiffle 

It  was  a  lovely  house  to  lie  about  in,  to  talk  in,  to 
dream  in.  It  was  restful  and  quaint,  offering  a 
pleasing  contrast  to  the  eccentric  modernity  of  the 
other  hcmes  I  visited  at  this  period.  There  was  no 
electricity.  The  chandeliers  burned  gas  but  the 
favourite  illumination  was  afforded  by  lamps  with 
round  glass  globes  of  various  colours,  through 
which  the  soft  light  filtered. 

On  ap  afternoon  in  December,  1919,  we  were 
lounging  in  the  drawing-room.  Peter  had  curled 
himself  into  a  sort  of  knot  on  a  broad  sofa  with 
three  carved  walnut  curves  at  the  back.  He  had 
spread  a  knitted  coverlet  over  his  feet,  for  it  was 
a  little  chilly,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  a  wood  fire 
was  smouldering  in  the  grate.  On  the  table  before 
him  there  was  a  highball  glass,  half-full  of  the 
proper  ingredients,  and  sprawling  beside  him  on  the 
sofa,  a  magnificent  blue  Persian  cat,  which  he  called 
Chalcedony.  George  Moore  and  George  Sand 
had  long  since  perished  of  old  age  and  Lou  Matagot 
had  been  a  victim  of  the  laboratory  explosion, 
There  was  a  certain  melancholy  implicit  in  their 
absence.  Nothing  reminds  us  so  irresistibly  of  the 
passing  of  time  as  the  short  age  allotted  on  this 
earth  to  our  dear  cats.  The  pinchbottle  and  sev 
eral  bottles  of  soda,  a  bowl  of  cracked  ice  and  a 
bowl  of  Fatima  cigarettes,  which  both  of  us  had 
grown  to  prefer,  reposed  conveniently  on  the  table 
between  us.  I  remember  the  increasing  silence  as 

[242] 


His  Life  and  Works 

the  twilight  fell  and,  how,  at  last,  Peter  began  to 
talk. 

I  wanted  to  do  so  much,  he  began,  and  for  a  long 
time,  during  these  past  four  years,  it  seemed  to  me 
that  I  had  done  so  little.  I  remembered  Zola's 
phrase:  Mon  ceuvre,  alors,  c'etait  1'Arche,  1'Arche 
immense !  Helas !  ce  que  Ton  reve,  et  puis,  apres,  ce 
que  Ton  execute  !  At  the  beginning  of  the  war,  I  was 
so  very  miserable,  so  unhappy,  so  alone.  It  seemed 
to  me  that  I  had  been  a  complete  failure,  that  I 
had  accomplished  nothing.  .  .  . 

I  must  have  raised  a  protesting  hand,  for  he  in 
terjected,  No,  don't  interrupt  me.  I  am  not  com 
plaining  or  asking  for  sympathy.  I  am  explaining 
how  I  felt,  not  how  I  feel.  I  never  spoke  of  it,  of 
course,  while  I  felt  that  way.  I  am  only  talking 
about  it  now  because  I  have  gone  beyond,  because, 
in  a  sense,  at  least,  I  understand.  I  am  happier 
now,  happier,  perhaps,  than  I  have  ever  been  be 
fore,  for  in  the  past  four  years  I  have  left  behind 
my  restlessness  and  achieved  something  like  peace. 
I  no  longer  feel  that  I  have  failed.  Of  course,  I 
have  failed,  but  that  was  because  I  was  attempting 
to  do  something  that  I  had  no  right  to  attempt. 
My  cats  should  have  taught  me  that.  It  is  neces 
sary  to  do  only  what  one  must,  what  one  is  forced 
by  nature  to  do.  Samuel  Butler  has  said,  and  how 
truly,  Nothing  is  worth  doing  or  well  done  which 
is  not  done  fairly  easily,  and  some  little  deficiency  of 

[243] 


Peter  Whiffle 

effort  is  more  pardonable  than  any  perceptible  ex 
cess,  for  virtue  has  ever  erred  rather  on  the  side  of 
self-indulgence  than  of  asceticism.  .  .  .  And  so,  in 
the  end,  and  after  all  I  am  still  young,  I  have  learned 
that  I  cannot  write.  Is  a  little  experience  too  much 
to  pay  for  learning  to  know  oneself?  I  think  not, 
and  that  is  why,  now,  I  feel  more  like  a  success  than 
a  failure,  because,  finally,  I  do  know  myself,  and  be 
cause  I  have  left  no  bad  work.  I  can  say  with 
Macaulay:  There  are  no  lees  in  my  wine.  It  is  all 
the  cream  of  the  bottle.  .  .  . 

I  have  tried  to  do  too  much  and  that  is  why, 
perhaps,  I  have  done  nothing.  I  wanted  to  write  a 
new  Comedie  Humaine.  Instead,  I  have  lived  it. 
And  now,  I  have  come  to  the  conclusion  that  that 
was  all  there  was  for  me  to  do,  just  to  live,  as  fully 
as  possible.  Sympathy  and  enthusiasm  are  some 
thing,  after  all.  I  must  have  communicated  at 
least  a  shadow  of  these  to  the  ideas  and  objects  and 
people  on  whom  I  have  bestowed  them.  Benozzo 
Gozzoli's  frescoes — now,  don't  laugh  at  what  I  am 
going  to  say,  because  it  is  true  when  you  understand 
it — are  just  so  much  more  precious  because  I  have 
loved  them.  They  will  give  more  people  pleasure 
because  I  have  given  them  my  affection.  This  is 
something;  indeed,  next  to  the  creation  of  the  fres 
coes,  perhaps  it  is  everything. 

There  are  two  ways  of  becoming  a  writer:  one, 
the  cheaper,  is  to  discover  a  formula :  that  is  black 
magic;  the  other  is  to  have  the  urge:  that  is  white 

[244] 


His  Life  and  Works 

magic.  I  have  never  been  able  to  discover  a  new 
formula ;  I  have  worked  with  the  formulae  of  other 
artists,  only  to  see  the  cryptogram  blot  and  blur 
under  my  hands.  My  manipulation  of  the  mystic 
figures  and  the  cabalistic  secrets  has  never  raised  the 
right  demons.  .  .  . 

What  is  there  anyway?  All  expression  lifts  us 
further  away  from  simplicity  and  causes  unhap- 
piness.  .  .  .  Material,  scientific  expression:  flying- 
machines,  moving  pictures,  and  telegraphy  are  simply 
disturbing.  They  add  nothing  valuable  to  human 
life.  Any  novelist  who  invokes  the  aid  of  science 
dies  a  swift  death.  Zola's  novels  are  stuffed  with 
theories  of  heredity  but  ideas  about  heredity  change 
every  day.  The  current  craze  is  for  psychoanalytic 
novels,  which  are  not  half  so  psychoanalytic  as  the 
books  of  Jane  Austen,  as  posterity  will  find  out  for 
itself.  .  .  .  Art  in  this  epoch  is  too  self-conscious. 
Everybody  is  striving  to  do  something  new,  instead 
of  writing  or  painting  or  composing  what  is  natu 
ral.  .  .  .  Even  the  disturbing  irony  and  pessimism 
of  Anatole  France  and  Thomas  Hardy  add  nothing 
to  life.  We  shall  be  happier  if  we  go  back  to  the  be 
ginning.  .  .  . 

The  great  secret  is  the  cat's  secret,  to  do  what 
one  has  to  do.  Let  IT  do  it,  let  IT,  whatever  IT 
is,  flow  through  you.  The  writer  should  say,  with 
Sancho  Panza,  De  mis  virias  vengo,  no  se  nada. 
Labanne,  in  Le  Chat  Maigre,  cries:  Art  declines  in 
the  degree  that  thought  develops.  In  Greece,  in 

[245] 


Peter  Whiffle 

the  time  of  Aristotle,  there  were  only  sculptors. 
Artists  are  inferior  beings.  They  resemble  preg 
nant  women;  they  give  birth  without  knowing  why. 
And  again,  to  quote  my  beloved  Samuel  Butler,  No 
one  understands  how  anything  is  done  unless  he  can 
do  it  himself;  and  even  then  he  probably  does  not 
know  how  he  has  done  it.  I  might  add  that  very 
often  he  does  not  know  what  he  has  done.  Sterne 
wrote  Tristram  Shandy  to  ridicule  his  personal  en 
emies.  Dickens  began  Pickwick  to  give  the  artist, 
Seymour,  an  opportunity  to  draw  Cockney  sports 
men  and  he  concluded  it  in  high  moral  fervour,  with 
the  ambition  to  wipe  out  bribery  and  corruption  at 
elections,  unscrupulous  attorneys,  and  Fleet  Prison. 
To  Cervantes,  Don  Quixote  was  a  burlesque  of  the 
high-flown  romantic  literature  of  his  period.  To 
the  world,  it  is  one  of  the  great  romances  of  all 
time.  .  .  . 

You  see,  I  am  beginning  to  understand  why  I 
haven't  written,  why  I  cannot  write.  .  .  .  That  is 
why  I  am  unhappy  no  longer,  why  I  am  more  peace 
ful,  why  I  do  not  suffer.  But,  and  now  a  strange, 
quavering  note  sounded  in  his  voice,  if  I  had  found 
a  new  formula,  who  knows  what  I  might  have  done? 

He  turned  his  face  away  from  me  towards  the 
back  of  the  sofa.  The  cat  was  purring  heavily,  al 
most  like  the  croupy  breathing  of  a  child.  It  was 
quite  dark  outside,  and  there  was  no  light  in  the 
room  save  for  the  flicker  that  came  from  the  dying 

[246] 


His  Life  and  Works 

embers.  There  was  a  long  silence.  In  trying 
afterwards  to  reckon  its  length,  I  judged  it  must 
have  been  fully  half  an  hour  before  I  spoke.  It 
was  a  noise  that  broke  the  charm  of  the  stillness. 
The  dead  end  of  the  log  split  over  the  andirons 
and  fell  into  the  grate. 

Peter,  I  began. 

He  did  not  move. 

Peter.  ...  I  rose  and  bent  over  him.  The 
clock  struck  six.  The  cat  stirred  uneasily,  rose, 
stretched  his  enormous  length;  then  gave  a  faint  but 
alarmingly  portentous  mew  and  leaped  from  the 
couch. 

Peter! 

He  did  not  answer  me. 

April  29,  1921 
New  York. 


THE   END! 


[247] 


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